Excerpt: The Body Politic

“Really?” he sounded pleased. “Sure, that’s great. I’ve been at a bit of a loss, to tell you the truth. You’d miss that auld rip, wouldn’t you.”
God almighty Damian had treated him like dirt and Liam was still loyal to him, underneath it all. I sighed and decided to lie politely. I like Liam. “You would, you really would.” Decent pause to allow for feelings of the bereaved, then “Actually – god I hardly know how to raise this but – do you mind me asking you something Liam?”
“Not at all,”
“Wel, it’s about Damian actually, about his – well, how he died. I wondered, were they sure – I mean absolutely sure – it was a heart attack?”
There was a puzzled silence then “But of course – did I not show you the report? They said he had a massive coronary. Our dad died of a heart attack, you know. I was shocked but you know, I don’t think I was actually really surprised poor Damian went the same way. He used to get red in the face when he’d lose his temper. I often warned him, I did. “Damian,” I used to say, “You’ll give yourself a heart attack!” No, there was no doubt about it.” I remembered Damian’s face, mottled red when he was in a rage; and there was no doubt he indulged in the finer things in life without ever worrying about his health – cigars, whiskies, good food. My heart slowed down and the weird sick feeling Doyle had left me with started to fade.
“Why on earth do you ask, Caroline?” Liam sounded curious but not, thank heavens, affronted.
“Ah something really stupid someone said, Liam. I thought they’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick alright. But you know what it’s like, some people are so insistent they make you nearly doubt yourself.”
“And they said Damian hadn’t died of a heart attack?”
“Well, not in so many words, more they said they had heard a rumour about how he had died. God people are stupid, Liam, I’m sorry I brought it up at all, don’t worry about it.”
“Ah no, I’m glad you told me. If you can put whoever said it straight, I’d be grateful. I would hate Margaret to hear people gossiping about stuff like that.”
“Oh I know, that’s why I had to ask. I don’t really know what he was getting at, or even if he really knows to be honest, but it was such a bizarre thing to say I had to ring.”
Liam sighed “I suppose it’s inevitable. We may be grateful the gossip columns haven’t tried to say he died in bed with Elaine Dunne.”
“Hah! Or worse…”
“Don’t, don’t. Could you imagine it?” He chuckled. “Well I’m glad you got in touch anyway.”
“Me too, Liam. The other reason I rang was, I have a bit of news. I got a job offer. I start tomorrow in fact.”
“What? I thought you were back at the helm of Jordan PR!” I could hear in his voice how delighted he was to be included in the gossip. I had found it hard going from the centre of power to a regular job – I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Liam, retreating into forced retirement.
“Aha! I am, still, technically but an old political contact got in touch. You’ll never guess who?”
“Caroline Jordan if you tell me you’re working for Lillian Roche….”
“Urgh no….much higher than that.”
“Higher than a Minister? That’s – oh, oh, oh! That’s not it is it? Michael T O’Mahony? Go on, it’s not!”
“It is! I’ll be doing a lot of media stuff for him,” Slightly fudging but it never hurt to be circumspect. “I’m starting tomorrow, can you believe it?”
“That’s fabulous. You’ll be right in the thick of things. Oh, that’s amazing,” Liam sounded genuinely pleased. “Wait til I tell Maureen!”
“Well, I’ll be flat out the next few weeks, probably until Christmas with the emergency budget and so on but if you don’t mind I’ll be picking your brains from time to time? I’ll really miss having you to run things past. How’s going to give me a heads up on all the backroom deals and stuff?”
“Ah ring me anytime. I may not be in the middle of things anymore but there’s nothing historical I can’t tell you. I know where a lot of skeletons are buried.”
“Excellent. And I’m going to let you go now, except for one last thing. Have you ever thought about writing a book?”

Chapter Four

By morning the whole thing – Doyle’s unwarranted visit, his ridiculous suggestions – seemed like a vague bizarre dream in the face of the sheer terror of starting my new job. There is nothing worse that the first day in any job, especially one you actually want to do well at. On the one hand I was returning to a place I knew intimately, but on the other I was returning there in such a different capacity it was surreal. The offices occupied by An Taoiseach were a little more opulent than the ones Damian had enjoyed in Justice, but there was an air of brisk efficiency that was a lot more convincing than among our old team. I presented myself as instructed and before I had even taken a seat Derek Fields appeared, smiling and genial.
As he had promised, without much further ado I spent the day shadowing him; to the intense and obvious curiosity of everyone we met. Derek remained absolutely tight-lipped about my presence at his shoulder, and I took my lead from him. The day and indeed every day following for the rest of the week was a whirlwind of faces, meetings, huddled talks, laborious discussions about wordings of press releases, and no holds barred commentary from Derek on Minister Roche and her unsuitability for the role of Justice Minister. Nothing convinced me more completely that he had accepted me into the role of his apprentice than his gleeful dissection of the her, the situation, our last meeting, our next meeting, the moment we were alone.

Every now and then Michael T himself crossed our paths. He greeted me warmly and then seemed to promptly forget my very existence. Up close the relationship between him and Derek was extraordinary. For four years I’d worked with a Minister and his brother, but the rapport between the Taoiseach and the Kingmaker was a hundred times more brotherly than theirs had ever been. Or at least so I imagined; being an only child myself I had to guess. But they seemed not only to like each other, and be as used to each other as an old married couple, they seemed to share a single fundamental view of life, politics, and everyone around them. As the days wore their way through, a tortuous plan to present Roche as the ideal replacement for Justice took shape, and with every day I realised that if Derek Fields had not wanted me there, Michael T wouldn’t have even considered it.

The Sunday afternoon saw an impromptu meeting in the lounge of a well known hostelry, infamous for it’s political gatherings. Michael was in the process of giving detailed instructions on the next day’s vote and the timing of the announcement when he paused in mid sentence, and stared directly at me.
“Honest opinion, what do you think the reaction will be?”
“Lillian Roche is loathed.” Might as well jump right in. “No matter where you put her, the collective sigh of relief from every parent in Ireland, people whose life mission it is to get her out of Education, will speed her on her way. I reckon beneath the obvious sniping and grumbling on the whole it will be a popular decision – somehow her public image suits justice.” Yeah, jack-booted and draconian. In the current political climate the public would not mind seeing someone vicious in charge of Crime and Punishment. “The opposition will attack the decision, Minister Roche will give one of her snide putdowns and all anyone will be able to think about for a week is whatever sobriquet she applied to the leader of the opposition.”
I drew breath and added, “Politically, as in what she’ll actually do to Justice I wouldn’t dare predict. But I suspect she may meet her match in Mark Jacobs.”

A horribly long moment of silence followed; making me wondered if this would be the briefest gig of my career.

“Hah!” Michael T gave a bark of laughter. “You have Lillian pegged anyway. Mark Jacobs, eh. You may be right.” He reached over and squeezed my arm. “I knew you’d have it sussed.” I caught the glances around the table between politico and lackey and suddenly the man beside me moved his chair to allow me more space, closer to the table. And everyone smiled at me.

And just like that I was “in.” Or at least not so far out. After that meeting, there was a subtle change in the way I was treated, the deference that was gently proffered. The Taoiseach had made a public gesture in front of his cronies and colleagues and it hadn’t been wasted on them.
“Capitalise on it,” Paula cautioned me. We had almost daily update phone-calls, the three of us. Stephen and Paula were working like Trojans to keep Jordan PR’s normal clients happy and I was so in debt to them at this point no amount of Christmas bonuses would cover it.
“I’m trying to, I assure you. Every night before I crawl into bed I read every newspaper, devour every set of minutes, swot like I’m taking the Leaving. All so that the next time I’m asked an opinion I can be as incisive and impressive again.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Stephen patted my hand. “Don’t get distracted though. No parties or dates or weekend city breaks, eh?” Honestly. As if I would blow off the running of the country for some silly party. Except of course, for nearer to Christmas because you had to go out around Christmas.

The best thing about my new position apart from the obvious kudus and status was watching Lillian Roche’s face change every time we crossed paths. The first time was an absolute gift from the gods. Michael T, Derek and of course in my capacity as shadow, I were closeted in his office, the inner sanctum of government itself. Minister Roche entered for a tete a tete, full of the quivering self importance that had descended on her the moment O’Mahony told her she was getting Justice. She glanced around the room and when her eyes lit on me, sitting cosily at Derek’s right hand, sifting through files that she just knew in her water contained information on her and (I sincerely hope she realised) evaluations of her ministerial performance, she went red white and slightly green in rapid succession. She paused, her entire demeanour demanding an explanation but O’Mahony simply gave a weary wave of his hand and Derek acted as if I had always been there.

After that meeting, one she conducted through gritted teeth, casting outraged looks in my direction, she plastered a smile on her gob at the sight of me but she had yet to manage a single civil good morning. I of course being a consummate professional contented myself with grinning evilly at her over Derek’s shoulder whenever I could.

I was proud of my work over the next couple of weeks. Every contact in the political press was courted, every favour pulled, to get advance knowledge of what the press was about to say about the new appointee. I spun gold out of straw for the bitch, I obsessed over every detail and caught more than one potentially damaging mistake before it occurred. In fact I worked for her like she was my one chick and earned myself a pat on the back and a nod from Derek.
“Good girl. Personal opinion has no place in this. It’s a hard lesson for a lot of people to learn but you seem to grasp it.”

And in all this Detective Sergeant Doyle’s bizarre visit faded completely from my mind. I met up with Liam, who had taken the idea of writing a book like a man grasping a lifeline in raging seas. “I’m not a great writer,” he said, “But I can tell a good anecdote. I thought I’d start there, putting together the various stories and high jinks over the years.” We had agreed that it shouldn’t be a book about Damian per se, but a book by a seasoned political operative whose brother had been one of Ireland’s most famous politicians. It would have stories about Damian, obviously, but it would also draw on a wealth of knowledge about the personalities, crises, scandals and historical events of a career spanning nearly 30 years. From an idle thought it had grown into a really viable project and one the seemed to have reinvigorated Liam.
“I thought I would do a rough outline and run it past you, see if I’m going in the right direction?”
“From what you’ve told me, you are but I’d be delighted to read an outline. And once you’ve got the back broken on it, we can arrange to read and re-read and streamline it.”
I already had an agent or two sniffing round (having planted the rumour that Liam had a red hot story to tell) and one of them, Nuala Collins, would have been my first choice anyway.
We had a happy chat about the proposed book and Liam tried out some of his anecdotes on me. It turned out he had a sharp dry wit and a phenomenal memory for details. There was no one and nothing in his career he couldn’t recall in perfect detail – he would be any fact checker’s wet dream. It was also surprising how few of the best stories involved Damian; Liam had kept his ears cocked and eyes open and the things he knew about politics in Ireland would keep the public highly entertained for years to come.
We were just finishing up, when Liam asked suddenly,
“Did you ever hear more about that rumour?”
It took me a moment or two to understand what he meant.
“Oh that? No, no I didn’t. I haven’t seen that person since, to be honest. But then again I haven’t heard anything about it from anyone, so he must have been just talking through his hole.”
He looked thoughtful. “Do you think? I’m not so sure. I’ve heard something similar.”
Shocked, I sat back and stared at him. “Really?”
He nodded tersely. “I know a few of the journalists for years now, we keep in touch. One of them asked me off the record, did I have any doubt about how Damian died.”
“Holy crap. I’m so sorry Liam,” That fucker Doyle. He must be spreading the same muck among journalists as he had tried to palm off on me. It hit me why he had come to me in the first place, he had probably assumed I would jump on the story and spread it everywhere. “Look, I hope you told them point blank they had the wrong end of the stick?”
“Of course I did but – it wasn’t just them. Since then someone I’ve known for twenty years took me aside to ask if it was true. And they heard it from more than once source.”
“For god’s sake. Look, I tell you what. I’ll get Paula on it, unofficially. She has a way with these things. She’s like a bloodhound, she tracks each rumour back to it’s source and quietly snuffs it out. And I’ll talk to the idiot who said it to me – I suspect he may have spread the rumour in the first place.”
“Why?” Liam shook his head. “Why on earth would anyone spread such a malicious story?”
“Ah Liam,” I shook my head wearily. “Someone with a bee in their bonnet, or who hopes to sell a story, or who holds a grudge because Damian once stood on their toe in a pub. There’s always a reason for people to be complete bastards. But they don’t call me the Goddess of PR for nothing, I’ll sort it.”
“Thanks but – do they call you the Goddess of PR?”
“Well no, but they might. I’m sort of trying it out. I bet I could get some journo to call me it if I tried!”
I succeeded in making him laugh but I was far from amused by this turn of events. Once I was home that night I rang Paula and put her on the job; she was a big Liam fan and more than willing to stomp all over this nasty little malice. But she was not as convinced as I was that Doyle was the prime mover.
“Sure he’s a Garda. He probably heard the rumour and came to see what you knew about it, or maybe just to give you a heads up about it.”
“But the way he did it –“
“Sure that just proves he’s a gobshite.” Paula adopted a cautionary tone. “Don’t go charging in accusing him, promise me. Just tell him that you have heard further rumours and that it’s causing distress to the family. And that you double checked and there was no doubt the man died of a heart attack.”
That would have been the sensible way to go about it, no doubt.

Chapter Five

“DS Doyle is on his way down,” the Garda behind the desk said. She spotted my hat, scarf and umbrella and grinned at me. “Is it still vile out?”
“It’s worse,” I replied gloomily. It had started raining three days before and pretty much hadn’t changed except the rain got icier and the wind stronger. I had toyed with the idea of ringing DS Doyle but Paula persuaded me to wait until she had done some digging around. Then she had rather shamefacedly announced that at least two sources swore they had heard the story from a high ranking Garda source.
I was here to rip his head off.

He did not look particularly pleased to see me either, a fact I first attributed to his apparent dislike of me on general principles. But then I saw that he was not alone, and the man who was stomping behind him, obviously agitated, was none other than Damian Fitzpatrick’s son Rory. I stood to one side, unnoticed by him until the Garda called out, “DS Doyle! Lady to see you.” He glanced at me and then did a double take, his face filled with suspicion. I smiled warmly at him, on the very sound assumption that we both on the same side.
“Rory,” I extended both hands. He took them and tried to smile graciously but a muscle still twitched in his jaw.
“Caroline?” it was definitely a question. I nodded at Doyle. “What a coincidence. Both of us here to see the same member of an Garda Siochain?” A flicker of something I hoped was comprehension crossed his face.
“Well, I’m on my way out. I’ll talk to you soon, Caroline.” He glowered at Doyle. “I’ll be hearing from you very soon as well, DS.” With that parting shot, he disappeared back out into the wild night.
Doyle gave what sounded like an exasperated sigh, and turned his fish eyed stare on me.
“Well. Miss Jordan. And what can I do for you?”
“Oh I dunno,” I spoke loudly and deliberately so that everyone in the rather busy city centre station foyer could hear. “Let’s see, a little matter of malicious gossip mongering. I was wondering, seeing as you’re a Garda, you might know. What kind of lowlife scumbag spreads cowardly anonymous rumours around the place, upsetting a grieving family and leaving them fending off questions from friends and colleagues? In your professional opinion?”
He went red, or rather two bright red spots appeared on both cheeks. “We can talk in here…” he muttered, placing his hand firmly on my shoulder and all but frog marching me into a small room – an interrogation room, part of my brain noted excitedly. I have always been a sucker for cop shows. He closed the door and turned to me with a glint in his eyes. “For gods sake! I suppose you think that’s funny or something? Did I not tell you that particular piece of information was private?”
“Private?” I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down firmly. DS Doyle was given to towering over people and using his considerable height and muscularity to intimidate them. He’s done it in my kitchen, but he was not going to get away with it twice. I had learned from dealing with men over the years that you can never win a confrontation with a bolshy man by being bolshier. You won by taking away their power, ignoring their posturing and imposing your own power on the room. I made my self comfortable, while he visibly fumed; only when I had my handbag, coat and scarf arranged to my satisfaction did I glance back up and him and continue.
“You arrived at my door one evening, behaved in a bizarre and rude fashion, made an obscure reference to rumours surrounding the death of my former employer, made comments about my current employment, and then left. Oh no wait, you gave me a dire warning, also highly obscure and then you left. Frankly I took nothing you said seriously.”
His cheeks went bright red in two spots again and Doyle opened his mouth to speak but I held up my hand dismissively. “Please do not interrupt me. Since that evening, I have heard from several sources that there are rumours flying around. Damian was with someone else when he died, Damian didn’t die of a heart attack, it was drugs, it was sex, even rumours that it wasn’t a natural death. I’m just waiting to hear that he was bumped off by an assassin.”
“Now, DS Doyle, the strange thing is no one seems to have heard these rumours before you brought them to my attention. See, one thing I’m good at is tracking down gossip and rumours. I’ve had every last malicious little story checked and double checked and you know what keeps popping up? Not so much “a little bird told me” as “A high ranking Garda source told me.” Now that makes me very, very suspicious. I think about a high ranking Garda official turning up on my doorstep and making strange allegations and I think to myself, could this be linked?”
I leant back and tapped the table lightly. “See, I don’t much care what you say about Damian Fitzpatrick. He was an auld rip, and proud of it. But I do care about his brother Liam, and his widow, and his kids. I care that someone is spreading dirt that has to get back to them eventually. If I’m right about why Rory Fitzpatrick was here tonight, it possibly already has. And that’s not acceptable.”

He was as cool as ice; I had to hand it to him. He looked at me levelly and although his cheeks were still slightly flushed he was otherwise unruffled.
“Miss Jordan,” he began then stopped, then gave a little laugh. “OK, I’m sorry. Look, we seem to have got off to a very bad start – all my fault, I admit it.” He pulled the other chair from the far side of the table and sat opposite me. “I can appreciate in retrospect that it all must seem a bit odd. But to be perfectly blunt, I wanted to see what you would do. With the information, I mean. When you didn’t do anything, I really should have got back in contact with you but - well, things are complicated.” He spread his hands in a gesture of “what could I do?”
I tapped my foot in a reciprocal gesture of “what the hell are you talking about.”

“DS Doyle, I appreciate you apologising for your rudeness – I take it you were actually apologising for your rudeness to me? Thank you. – but unfortunately you haven’t made any of this any clearer. Why did you deliberately try to get me to spread a rumour like that? What were you trying to imply?”
He sighed. “I wanted to see if you would spread it around that Damian Fitzpatrick didn’t die of natural causes.”
The man was clearly insane. “But why on earth would you do that?”
“Because, Miss Jordan, I happen to know his death was anything but natural.”

You what, now?
I tried to think of something to say but my mind was blank.
Liam! “Excuse me, but you’re wrong,” I said triumphantly. “I know Liam Fitzgerald extremely well and he assured me that his brother died of a heart attack. He has a death certificate to prove that.”
He looked at me pityingly. “Yes I know. Initially that’s what was assumed. The doctor called to the scene saw all the hallmarks of a heart attack and proceeded accordingly. Then when Dr O’Toole arrived, she saw something different.” Dr Lorraine O’Toole, the famous state pathologist? This sounded pretty convincing. “It was agreed for various reasons, most of which I can’t go into with you, that the heart attack story should stand. But the truth is, he was murdered.”
Something of what I felt must have shown on my face because he said with something approaching a kindly tone of voice (rather like Darth Vader trying to be nice) “I appreciate this must be an awful shock. I am sorry we involved you but at the time we thought it would yield results. But now, you can rest assured we have it in hand. And I cannot stress this enough Miss Jordan – this is strictly confidential information. Strictly.”
Flipping cheek.
“Eh, the last “confidential” information you gave me, I was supposed to actually spread around. So which is this?” He didn’t reply but had the grace to look sheepish. I sighed. “Look..frankly, this is all a bit mad. I mean, everyone who saw poor Damian said he had a heart attack. He looked like he had one. Everyone believed it. Are you honestly telling me that if a Minister of this state is murdered, it’s covered up and no one is any the wiser?”
“Yes. More or less. Look, there is more going on here than you know. For goodness sakes think about it. The man dies at his desk, in the government buildings. Who are the suspects? Who are his colleagues, his friends? Who has motive? Do you really think we can investigate this as if it were Joe Bloggs from Kimmage?”
“I suppose not, but- but it’s still mad. I still don’t understand why you tried to get me involved.” I sounded a bit petulant even to my own ears but it was hard not to feel hard done by; I had come here expecting to have a drag down fight with Doyle, fully armed with righteous indignation and now it seemed he was in the right and everything he had done was for a good reason. This was highly annoying - as he was just the most irritating, smug, rude man and I was still not sure that he was fully compos mentis.

“look,” Doyle rubbed a hand across his face wearily. “I thought you would spread the story. I’m sorry, you work in PR, you’re media savvy, you know all the people involved – it never occurred to me you’d be the only woman in Ireland to keep a secret.” He tried a smile but dropped it when I scowled. “Anyway,” he continued hastily,” I also wanted to observe your reaction. You must see you were one of our chief suspects.”
Ah here, this was going too far.
“Me? Why me?” I said indignantly. “I just worked for him - I might not have exactly liked Damian but no one did. What makes me a chief suspect, for Christ’s sake? . Hell, I was out on my ear when he died!”
The look on Doyle’s face was classic. Even as he opened his mouth to respond you could see some ancient survival mechanism in the hind brain kick in, telegraphing messages like “Shut up, shut up, shut up, she doesn’t know what you’re talking about…” But just a little too late as the words popped out. “Well, come on now. You were Damian Fitzpatrick’s mistress – you have to realise it makes you a person of interest.”

I’ll hand it to him, he segued almost seamlessly into apologies as I stood up. I’ve been told that when I want to be I can be highly intimidating; at that particular moment I fairly vibrated with rage. Doyle actually flinched as I came close.
“Say that again. Go on.”
“I’m sorry, sorry-“
“You roaring idiot. What is wrong with you? Do you have a big book upstairs entitled “policing by stereotypes? I’m in PR so I must be a gossipy fuckwit. I’m female working for a high profile Minister of state so I have to be a fucking Monica Lewinsky? What – all women are gossipy sluts who can’t keep secrets? Do your female colleagues know what a low opinion you have of women, DS Doyle? Do you think they’re all sleeping their way into jobs?”
“Look, I’m sorry,” the man said desperately, “we knew he was sleeping with someone – look won’t you come back in…”
“He wasn’t sleeping with someone, he was sleeping with two people and neither of them was me, you brain dead moron.”
I slammed the door shut behind me and found myself the focus of both the Garda behind the desk and the rather drunken old woman with whom she had been dealing . The Garda was grinning like a loon and I swear she gave me a surreptitious thumbs up. The old lush twinkled up at me and said “lover’s tiff, lover’s tiff.”
“Lover’s tiff, my hole.” I replied rudely. I looked at the Garda and said “you’d need to watch that one, Doyle. Apparently his view of women originates from somewhere around the middle ages.”
“Ah he’s not that bad,” she said but added, “but he probably deserved that.”
Too right he deserved it.

Chapter six

Still seething, I stalked to the car park which for a Garda station was in a surprisingly dark and isolated spot at the back of the station. I could hear the traffic outside on the main road but otherwise it was an eerily deserted place. Usually I would cross a car park like that with eyes in the back of my head, fists clenched around my car keys and holding my breath ready to scream. As it was, I was still burning with rage and completely occupied with all the other things I wished I had said to DS Doyle; so when a hand touched my arm I almost burst into tears with sheer fright. I gave a strangled kind of cry and tried to run away backwards but only succeeded in tripping over my own feet.
“Caroline?” the voice sounded vaguely familiar and it seemed to know my name. “Are you ok?”
Rory Fitzpatrick. If I had half a working brain cell I might have guessed that he would wait outside to see me; I tried to gather some tattered dignity and stand upright again.
“Christ, I gave you a fright. I am terribly sorry.” He sounded genuinely contrite. When I looked at him I was shocked by how fraught he looked and despite myself I experienced a pang of empathy. I forced myself to smile.
“It’s okay – I just wasn’t expecting anyone out here. Or I suppose I expected anyone out here to be a mugger.”
He smiled, and I had to admit the Fitzpatrick genes were easy on the eye. Like his brothers, Rory was tall and well built. His features were regular and where his brothers tended to be a little bland if pleasant looking, his face had a touch more edge. You’d pick him out of a line up as Paula would say.
“I’m so sorry. I should have called out first, I know. But I was just so glad to have caught you – I was about to head off.” He glanced around himself ruefully. “What must I look like, standing in the rain like a stalker?”
Jesus, it was still pouring rain. Now I thought of it, I was freezing and wet.
“Here, sit in the car.” I beeped my pride and joy, a Jaguar XK series black coupe. It wasn’t brand new – almost three years old now – but it was in mint condition and it had been the first new car I had ever bought. And the best part was I had got it for an absolute song.
A year after I began working for Damian, I had been at a party in the house of one of Ireland’s favourite socialites; a great party until I had discovered the 16 year old daughter of a Senator passed out in a downstairs bathroom. The poor cow was in a bad way, and the rather older young man who was hanging over her didn’t seem all that interested in her medical state. A few hours in A&E getting her stomach pumped ensued, her parents arrived, heard the story and expressed undying gratitude. Turns out her uncle owns the biggest jaguar dealership in the country and when her father happened to hear I was looking for a decent set of wheels, I found myself the proud owner of a car that I couldn’t have afforded at the full price in a million years.

Rory looked it over appreciatively but said nothing, just sank into the seats and groaned. “I’m soaked.”
I turned on the engine and hit the heater to full. “That’s better.” Rory twisted in the passenger seat to look directly at me. “Caroline, can I ask you – I mean, I know it’s none of my business but would you mind if I ask you – what brought you to see DS Doyle tonight?”
This was going to be difficult to broach tactfully but then again, it really had to be said.
“Rory, I came to see Doyle because I heard something. Something I needed to talk to him about.”
“You heard something about my dad?” I felt so sorry for him, he looked almost sick.
“Yes. I heard a – well your uncle Liam and I heard some rumours so we felt we should look into them. Neither of us wanted to upset your mother or any of you but we were afraid if we didn’t do something it was only a matter of time before one of you got to hear them.”
“I knew it.” He shook his head. “I heard the same – the same shite. One of Dad’s oldest friends, Patrick Mullins. He took me aside and said he’d heard a load of rumours around the place about Dad and how he died. He- he thought it had something to do with that trollop Elaine Dunne.” He sighed, looking so miserable I had to look out the window or hug him like a child. I had always wondered if the boys knew about their dad’s peccadilloes. “But then I heard – well, it was fucking ridiculous. But I heard people were saying that it wasn’t a natural death.” His mouth tightened into a closed line.
“Ah.”
“You heard the same?” Rory was startled.
“Yes. Well, yes and no.” A stab of conscience smote me, smote me good. I couldn’t help it, I was congenitally inclined towards the forces of law and order. A Garda – albeit a strange and probably deranged one – had asked me to be discreet. “I heard such a mish mash of rumour and innuendo, including that he’d been up to no good when it happened and so on…I just ignored them at first but they didn’t go away. It could just be some malicious person with some perceived grudge against your family, getting a kick out of spreading muck.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Ah – I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I mean, the death certificate was clear as day, heart attack.”
“Yes, yes it was,” he said eagerly. “That’s what I told Doyle. Did you know Doyle was asking around about Dad? That was the other thing Patrick Mullins told me. He said he was asking all kinds of stuff, but you know what it’s like, people close ranks.”
“Yeah, I heard the same.” It was more or less true. “I thought maybe he had asked questions and that had sparked off a load of stupid rumours..”
Rory shook his head. “Nah. These rumours are coming from someone with a grudge, like you said. That makes perfect sense. Poor Dad, he wasn’t the most tactful of men, not when he wanted something. He made a lot of enemies in his time.”
He said it almost affectionately. I suppose to the family the Minister had been a tad tactless rather than a total prick.
“I’d say that’s it.” Suddenly I was very tired. It had been a hellish couple of weeks, working flat out and the night was absolutely vile and I just wanted to be at home, in my little shoebox flat on my own couch, watching wonderful crap tv. “At any rate, I think between us we have given DS Doyle something to think about. Maybe he’ll get his finger out now and sort all this out.”
“Thanks Caroline, I really mean it. Not just for going down there and sticking up for dad but for letting me vent. Christ I feel so much better now. I was really beginning to wonder if there was something wrong. Poor Mam – it’s bad enough he died so suddenly without there being anything…well, anything hinky about it all.”
“I understand. And it’s my pleasure. How’s Margaret doing?”
“Not too bad – good days and bad days.”
“I must call into her. I really meant to but things have just been hectic. You know I am working for O’Mahony now?”
“No!” Rory’s entire face brightened as he smiled. He seemed genuinely delighted for me. “I hadn’t heard, I’m so glad. I know you have your other contracts but I gathered from Liam you would find it a bit tough without Dad.”
Whatever else he did, Damian had reared nice kids.
“Can I drop you anywhere Rory?”
“Ah no, you’re fine. I’m parked down the road. Not that I wouldn’t mind being chauffeured around in this.” He ran a hand over the gleaming dashboard. “It’s a beauty!”
I loved when people praised my baby. “Yes, yes she is. That glow of well being you’re feeling right now is courtesy of heated leather seats. She boasts cruise control, park distance control, and climate control. Also Xenon lights, air conditioning, alarm, remote locking, climate control, radio/cd multichanger, ABS, multi function steering wheel….”
He burst out laughing. “You really do love this car don’t you? I don’t blame you.” He grinned “maybe you could take me out for that drive some day?”
Without actually thinking about it or at least not consciously, I nodded. “Sure. It’ll have to be at Christmas though the way my professional life is going.”
“That’s a deal.” He clambered out and pulled his overcoat tight against the wind and rain. “Thanks again Caroline, I’ll see you soon. Hope this old Jalopy gets you home safe without like, breaking down or something.”
“Cheek.” I swung the Jag round and let the headlights sweep across him. “Rain sensor & headlight washers.”
He was still laughing as I pulled out of the car park.

It killed me that I couldn’t just tell Paula and Stephen what Doyle had said but really I could not justify it. And then, I realised, if I said nothing more to anyone there was a chance it might cease to be any of my business. Not terribly rational but all the same – between being told Damian had been murdered (how freaky was that? Murdered!) and then being told the instrument of policing and civil order in this country thought I had been banging the dear departed Minister, I was pretty much done with the whole thing. If I was going to be absolutely honest, I was a little frightened now. While I only really half believed Doyle and while it was obvious he could get the wrong end of the stick without the slightest effort, still – murder was a deeply ugly word and the fact that Doyle thought it was anything to do with the people who had worked there pretty much sickened me.

If only Damian had had the common courtesy to keel over at home. Then it finally hit me properly; if this was murder, then things like who saw him last and what time we all left at were actually important. And that presented me with a little bit of a dilemma.

Chapter Seven

From Paula Hughes’ narrative

I knew from the moment I met Caroline Jordan that I wanted to work with her. All my life I had been slightly out of whack with everyone else; a swot in a school full of hooligans, a quiet shy girl in a family of glamourpuss extroverts and so on. Being bright got me through school and being hard-working landed me a job but it was a boring life on the whole. I trundled from work to home to work and nothing much ever happened.

And then I met Caroline. My sister Anne worked as a secretary in a PR company and when a job opened up in the accounts department she got on to me about it like a terrier with a bone. “You’d be ideal for it.” Anne is drop dead gorgeous and very ambitious in her own way. She fully plans on marrying a millionaire and her ambitions on my behalf were for me to finish my accountancy exams and get a good steady job. “She might even meet someone, if she had a good job.” Anne’s view of life was very simple; good-looking girls married boys with good jobs, plain girls got jobs so some boy might marry them. I’m not actually that plain by the way, just in comparison to my three tall, rake thin, blonde siblings I am not that noticeable.

Anyway, I went along to the job interview in order to shut her up, and to my shock I got the job. The place was gorgeous; perfect, shiny, modern offices in a very cool area. And although I was only a lowly accounts technician, I could still tell people I worked in Duggan and Fines, the famous Advertising and PR firm. I settled in quite quickly and even made some friends among the accounts and payroll staff. There was very much a “them and us” atmosphere though. Everyone in accounts assured me that all the Ad suits (advertising executives) and media whores (anyone who worked in PR) were stuck up snobs, or total airheads. And, they all told me, they all look down on the Accounting and IT staff. “The only ones who get it worse than us are the secretaries,” one girl said, “and they’re too silly to realise.”

So I just kept my head down and worked away and occasionally Anne would waft down from the second floor where she was PA to one of the head honchos and regale us all with tales of debauchery. I noticed that the very ones who thought the secretarial staff were idiots were the most anxious to suck up to her and hear all the gossip.

Then the company Christmas party came around and of course it was an annual glamour-fest. I read the company email and almost squealed with delight – the venue was the Merrion hotel. Of all the fabulous hotels in Dublin, the Merrion was the most fabulous, the most wonderful. A friend had taken me for afternoon tea there once and since then one of my favourite daydreams was to win the lottery and live in the Merrion. That I had ended up working in a firm that held its Christmas party in such a place was a source of tremendous joy.
Short-lived joy, however. To my eager enquiries every single co-worker in accounts said they weren’t going to go. “It’s only for that lot upstairs.”
I asked Anne that night at home. She looked a bit puzzled but in fairness to her she was on my side. “I don’t really know, Paula. I’ve never really noticed before but now you mention it I don’t think anyone from accounts went last year,” She crinkled her perfect nose in perplexity and then shrugged. “Sod ‘em. You can come with me and Derbhla.” Derbhla was another PA and she had become Anne’s bosom buddy ever since they bonded over a bottle of Moet at the last company party.
“Can I? Oh thanks Anne.”
“No Bother. But make sure you wear something nice though. Please don’t turn up in that blue dress you always trot out.”
As if! I had just enough money saved to buy a really cool dress, a designer label reduced from a ridiculous price to a merely laughable one. Plus a pretty little party bag and shoes; there wasn’t enough left over to get my hair or makeup done but it hardly mattered. The dress literally shone, even Anne admitted that I “looked very well,” even without professional hair and makeup.
And then we went to the Merrion. I adored it, floating through the marbled halls past reception and into the drawing rooms. I noticed a few admiring looks as I came in, although in fairness as Anne was directly behind me it might not have been at me. Still, I looked great and I felt great. And it was a party. I gave a small inward “yay” and tried not to feel awkward. All my life when it came to parties I felt as if I was always standing outside the fun and games looking in. Not this time, I was determined. I smiled til my face ached, hung as close to Anne and Derbhla as possible and tried to join in with everything. And for a while it worked. I even got a laugh out of my sister’s friends with a description of the panic in payroll when someone realised a massively important report hadn’t been run off the printer (it was funnier than it sounds now, obviously.)

Then we went into dinner. And I ended up sitting between two of the rudest, most supercilious men I have ever met. Both asked me in turn what department I was in and both turned away without a word when I said “Accounts.” The food was incredible, the restaurant was like something out of a film set, but as the evening wore on and I sat there almost totally silent, I wished I had never come. I tried to catch Anne’s eye from time to time but she was engrossed in an elaborate flirtation with a good looking man at her table.

Then the girl across from me, a very tall, stunning looking brunette with huge sparkling eyes, leant across and said “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Caroline.”
“I’m Paula,” I said and then added defiantly, “from accounts.”
“Ah right, I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you around. The only time I get down to accounts is when my expenses are being queried.”
“That’d be Lisa,”
“That’s the one! God she’s a narky cow isn’t she? She acts like she works for the tax man and gets a commission on every penny she manages to claw back from me.” Lisa was a bit po-faced, I had to admit. “Are you Anne’s sister? I knew it. The pair of you have the same eyes.” The guy beside her tried to claim her attention back but she batted him off impatiently. “Can I ask you something? Anne says you were in the college of commerce? Rathmines? Did you happen to know a bloke called Ray Fogarty?”
“Oh god, yes. Ray from Galway – everyone knew him.”
“I was in UCD with him. C’mere, you’re not the Paula who helped him move flats that time, and the two of you carried that huge TV he nicked from home down the canal?”
“That was me!” and just like that Caroline had me telling stories about college, and Ray and we went through exhaustive lists of people to find that we knew at least three more. After the meal she dragged me over to her group in the corner where no one seemed to care if I wasn’t an account executive as long as I was with her.

I know it sounds as if I have a massive schoolgirl crush on Caroline but it’s not like that. It’s just she’s the nicest boss I have ever had and back then, she was the nicest co-worker I ever met. She rang me to go to lunch any time she was free, she included me in every outing or trip, she told me anything she heard that would affect me or my job. Besides, it’s Stephen I have the crush on.

When Caroline told me she was leaving to set up Jordan PR I was gutted. When she offered me a job, not as an accountant (although actually I do the accounts, seeing as how neither she nor Stephen can balance a chequebook between them) - but as her apprentice PR executive I almost cried.
“You know you want to. You’re wasted in accounts. You love fashion and parties and you are so good with people. And most importantly you have the mind of a master strategist – if I ever want to invade a small country I’ll need you to draw up the plan. And work out the logistics.”
And I was good at it. Soon Caroline could devote herself to Damian Fitzpatrick while Stephen and I ran the day to day affairs of the company. The last four years had been the best of my life and I owe it all to her. Though she would vomit if I ever told her that.

When she first got the job with O’Mahony Stephen and I were absolutely delighted. It seemed like a total reprieve for our little firm, our little family. Stephen was a bit worried that she was overdoing it, but as I pointed out to him, it was the same when she first joined Minister Fitzpatrick’s team. First came a steep learning curve and a period of frenetic activity and quite quickly, Caroline would find her feet and things would begin to pan out. And it wasn’t as if the Dail didn’t take enough holidays. We got into the habit in the days of Damian Fitzpatrick, revived now she was working with O’Mahony, of having dinner on a Tuesday or Wednesday night whenever possible. Stephen was in charge of booking it, and Monday evenings were always enlivened by a series of texts trying to organise three busy people into one place and the one time. “It’s like herding cats,” he complained once.
But there you are, we get on. And Jordan PR is ours. Well, technically it’s Caroline’s but the first year was so lean she paid us our Christmas bonus in shares and now she says we’re all to blame if it fails. And we’re good. Stephen is amazing in a crisis; it’s almost worth organizing one just to see him in action. And it’s really weird because he actually panics about everything, he really does. But somehow it translates into pure empathy and all the really serious people seem to love having him around. He makes them feel special.
Caroline is a pure natural, she can smell out a situation in nanoseconds and she is the most charming person on earth (when she wants, she can also be truly scary if riled.) I am brilliant at organization and when it comes to complicated social events like this big charity ball for cats (don’t even ask) all the women want me because they think I’m so calm. In reality I just have one of those stoical faces that doesn’t show panic; sometimes I have to go hide in a corner and have a meltdown but as long as they think I am in control everything works out fine.

I can’t say I regretted the demise of Damian Fitzpatrick much, apart from the effect it had on the fortunes of our little firm. Stephen and I crossed paths with him periodically and he was uniformly obnoxious. It wasn’t personal – he was utterly horrible to anyone he saw as a drone. He respected Caroline but even she got the rough side of his tongue regularly. Mark Jacobs was the only one he was civil to other than his own cronies and that was because Jacobs would have made sure no member of the civil service ever spoke to him again. Mark was fantastic, utterly cynical but devoted to the cause of Doing Things Right. He kept Damian under control in a way no one else could hope to emulate.

And Michael T O’Mahony was so much more charismatic. My mother adored him; when she heard that Caroline was on his team she was delighted and the next time O’Mahony gave one of his famous off-the-cuff press conferences on the steps of the Dail she screamed like a banshee because she caught a glimpse of Caroline’s hair in the background. Anne rang me in great excitement one day to say she heard her boss shouting at his junior about “that Jordan bitch” stealing O’Mahony from under their noses. Stephen and I were beside ourselves when we realised word was out in the industry. Jordan PR was on the way up.

So when Caroline told me someone was spreading rumours about Damian Fitzpatrick’s death, I really didn’t like it. Neither did Stephen. I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but it felt like an attack. “This isn’t good,” Stephen had his head in his hands at his desk. “Who would spread such a vicious story?”
“What’s it this time?”
“That he was screwing Elaine Dunne when her husband walked in and he had a heart attack.”
“Christ. You realise every second story is about Elaine? How come so many people know about her all of a sudden?”
“She was never that discreet.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “Poor cow. She isn’t bright. I bet she cried on a lot of shoulders when Damian died – word gets round. Here, you don’t think there’s anything in it do you? I mean the fact her name keeps cropping up?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think there’s anything in any of it. Look, first it’s just a handful of people and all they hear is that Damian’s death wasn’t a heart attack, or somehow wasn’t kosher. That’s all. The details all get filled in later.”
Stephen threw me a chocolate digestive “You’re a wonder.” To my annoyance I could feel my cheeks redden. If only I could flirt without turning into a walking tomato. “Thanks,” I said gruffly.
If I could wave a magic wand I’d come up with some witty reply or some subtle signal to make him sit up and take notice. Or get him drunk and see if he fancied me any better while pissed. Except of course we had been drunk in each other’s company many a time and he hadn’t so much as held my hand. He treated me like a best mate which was lovely, and I adored it, but it wasn’t much use to my lovelorn hell. I sighed.
“You okay?” Stephen’s face creased in concern. He had lovely eyes and a finely boned, intelligent face. I loved that he was taller than me, and that he dressed well without being fussy. And he had amazing hands, with long pianists fingers.
“Fine.” Reluctantly I turned back to a spreadsheet detailing the outlay on decorations for Lady Foxrock’s Cat ball. A load of candelabra centrepieces had gone astray. And several chairs. I wondered how could anyone lose chairs.
“Paula?”
“Yeah?”
“So what if the original rumour was true,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “I mean, all the original rumours said that Damian didn’t die of a heart attack.”
“Actually, they all said there was something hinky about his death. Some said he didn’t have a heart attack or that he had a heart attack but it was someone’s fault…”
“Right. So what if they’re right? I mean it’s a pretty weird rumour to just get started all by itself isn’t it?”
I shrugged it off. Really, Irish people would gossip about anything; if you thought there was any truth in most rumours you heard you would end up believing anything. But then Caroline started acting oddly – one minute she was off to tear DS Doyle’s ears off and the next she was a bit harassed and worried looking and didn’t really want to talk about it all. I called a council of war with Stephen.
“There’s something wrong.”
“She knows something.” He said nodding sagely. “I betcha Doyle told her something, and now she can’t tell us and she can’t tear strips off him either.” Stephen is unnaturally attuned to people’s moods; he could pick up on underlying tension from a mile away.
“Maybe. But – what do you think he said to her? I mean if he said, sorry it’s all been a misunderstanding and there is nothing at all behind those stories, you would think she’d be delighted. And she would definitely tell us!”
“Then there’s only one solution.” He dropped his voice to a grave whisper.( Is it too much information to say I found it very sexy?) “He told her that Damian was actually poisoned or he did have a heart attack but in the bed of a high ranking Minister of state….”
I shuddered. “Stop. We all swore, no speculating on what he got up to with Lillian Roche. Ever.”
“I meant Michael T O’Mahony,”
I considered this. “Well it’s better than Roche. Honest to god what did he see in that wagon?”
“Power? It’s not only women who are attracted to power and control.” Was that a hint about his own preferences I wondered? “Anyway, the principle’s the same. I think Doyle told Caroline something.”
“Could we pry it out of her? Should we?”
“I don’t know. Actually I’m a bit worried about her. Is that stupid?”
“No,” I replied warmly. “It’s not. I’m worried about her too. You know what she’s like. She thinks she can talk her way out of anything, make any situation work. But I don’t like this Doyle person turning up on her doorstep and making allegations.”
“Me either.”
We didn’t know what to do about it, but at least we were agreed that something needed to be done.