Excerpt: Next in Line

Chapter one

Caroline Jordan’s Narrative

“Into every life, a little rain must fall…” My colleague murmured sadly. I couldn’t help feel it was a slightly inappropriate response to the news that our beloved leader, politician and statesman Damian Fitzpatrick had passed away but at least it was marginally better than the man’s own brother and aide de camp, who had been heard to remark “Every cloud has a silver lining.” The news was filled with reports on his demise, constituency offices and ministries flooded with tearful tributes from the party faithful; the only people left unmoved were those of us who knew him well.

His heart attack (suddenly, without warning, mourned by all, tragic loss to the country – my years Public Relations and Media had given me the bad habit of writing press releases on every event) was certainly a shock but considering his tendency to work himself up into apoplectic rages at the drop of a hat no one was terribly surprised. What did surprise me was that he died of natural causes; I would have paid good money on him being murdered someday. Charming, erudite, professorial in public or in front of a TV camera he was pure evil in private – the previous four years of employment as his press secretary had been the worst years of employment I had ever experienced. Only the fact that Damian had made them the most lucrative had stopped me from staving his head in with a paperweight myself on occasion.

“Miss Jordan?” I realised that everyone in the room, from my colleague Mark Jacobs to the two plainclothes gardaí, were staring at me. I summoned a look of distress and my best fluttering female voice.
“I’m so sorry. It’s all just such a dreadful shock….you were saying?..”
Mark shot me a look of pure disgust; he knew I had hated Damien as much as he did and that I was about as distressed as a lottery winner. But I was the press secretary and I was expected to lie whereas as a pensioned, pampered civil servant he could afford to be more honest. The older of the two Gardaí gave me a sympathetic look but the younger one – Detective Sergeant Doyle – didn’t seem too convinced.
“I asked, When did you last see the Minister?”
This was a little tricky. I was not morally opposed to lying in general but I had made it a rule up ‘til now not to actually lie to the police.

The problem with moments like this is that you really have such a short amount of time to decide which road to take. Tell the truth, tell a lie. Look stupid or risk looking guilty further down the line. I like to think I would have told the truth if it had not involved a third party. I think I would have said “About half eight, he was sitting at his desk” but instead I gave an alternative version of events. That is after all my job – to present alternative versions of what someone meant, what the minister intended, how something should have sounded…so I said “I saw him at 6.45. I left early, you see. He was still here when I left” Every word strictly true of course. Not quite a lie, then. I feel so much better.

The older Garda glanced at his notes. His appearance and demeanour screamed special branch; working in the parliament buildings you got to know the look of them very quickly. “Mr Jacobs, you saw the minister leave at 8.45, am I right?”
How Damien’s wife was taking it, I wondered idly. I imagined she was playing an excellent Widow of the Nation but privately, she had to be dancing a jig. It was an open secret in political circles that Damien Fitzpatrick had at least two long-term mistresses; though like most Irish politicians he played the catholic family man. Post Celtic Tiger Ireland may like Sex and Scandal but we want our politicians as pure as De Valera.
“Yes.” Mark said “It was 8.45 give or take five minutes. I didn’t take a particular note of the time, you understand. But it was in or around a quarter to or ten to the hour.”
The Special Branch man nodded, and read carefully back through other notes. The other one fixed Mark with a steely look and remarked “It seems late for a civil servant to be working….a quarter to nine at night.”
Both Mark and I snorted. “Late?”
“Contrary to public perception Garda, politicians work early and late, and their staff work with them. Especially incumbent Ministers in an outgoing administration; there are any number of loose ends to tie up. We’ve been working all hours these last few months.” Mark managed to sound like the picture of outraged virtue, the civil servant whose very health and well being were sacrificed regularly on the alter of the nation’s good.

Considering the current state of the country – recession, bank crises, expenses scandals – any politician who wanted a shout at his seat in the next general election had his PR and press team working overtime. The cynical might suggest that it would be more productive for him to actually work overtime but that’s just not how it works around here. You could singlehandedly solve the banking crisis, save the whale and reverse global warming but without the likes of me and my team you wouldn’t get a paragraph in the Evening Herald.
Mark, being our beloved leader’s private secretary, got to stay late and brainstorm with us on occasion; especially before big announcements or when we try to avoid unwanted announcements. So far in my 4 years as Fitzpatrick’s PR and media whore I’d averted at least 6 major scandals, spun several of his irrational rages as “passionate concern for the issues” and done my best to keep his goody-two-shoes image alive and well. Mark had been around much longer than I had and he practically ran the place.

“Has anyone told the Taoiseach?” Mark asked suddenly. The Gardaí exchanged a look. Declan had been both the Grand Old Man of the party and a bitter rival to the prime minister, although both hotly denied any antagonism. We had frequently endured the deceased Minister for Justice’s vicious ranting against our smooth, urbane, charming Taoiseach – the press loved him which drove Fitzpatrick insane. I imagined Michael T O’Mahony dancing around his office and embracing the Gardaí who broke the news to him.
“Yes,” the older of the detectives said cautiously. “I believe he is fully appraised of the situation.”
His colleague snapped his notebook shut and growled “Well that’s all I suppose.” He turned rather cold blue eyes on me and asked pointedly “You’re quite sure about the time then Miss Jordan?”
“I am” I said firmly.

So, here we are. “PR guru out on ear” the little headline editor in my head hissed. I had to admit that far from mourning the old git I was far more concerned with my own plight. Here I was, 35 or thereabouts, unexpectedly ousted from a high profile job. In an ideal world I would welcome the release from the shallow and cynical world of politics and parties and press releases and journalists sucking up to me for a story but obviously I wouldn’t have gone into PR in the first place if I had any objection to shallow and cynical. The job had its drawbacks (Damian Fitzpatrick for example) but it had its compensations; I was on the guest list of a hundred venues, I was invited to every social event from balls to dinner parties and while I was not exactly facing a lifetime in the wilderness there was no denying that my stock would fall sharply once I left Leinster House.

Plus there was the small question of finances. At the height of the Celtic Tiger boom, I’d been working in Dublin’s largest PR firm, and the idea to go out on my own had seemed brave, entrepreneurial, forward thinking. Now it seemed suicidal. I had bank loans, wage bills and the rest of my disposable income went on my mortgage (shoebox apartment in Dublin’s trendiest apartment block) and my wardrobe. I spent an awful lot on clothes which frankly I resented because I don’t even like fashion that much but I was stuck. You cannot wear the same outfit twice in a season, you really can’t. Not when it’s your job to look a certain way. And I wasn’t extravagant – my wardrobe was full of classic items that could be mixed and matched and treaded a fine line between designer labels and bargains. And I only owned a normal sane person’s amount of shoes.
But whatever the excuses the fact remained I couldn’t afford to lose my lead client and the kudos that went with it. My other contracts, handled by my juniors Paula and Stephen, wouldn’t keep all three of us in Vodka. It was a horrible feeling, realising that if the stupid old fool had managed to not have a heart attack I wouldn’t be facing financial ruin. Even from beyond the grave Damian Fitzpatrick was screwing with me.
I sat at my desk in my lovely Kildare street office and listened to the muted gossiping along the corridors of power. Stop panicking, Start thinking – my mantra for dealing with threatened crisis came to mind. Whatever else, my name was known and my work was respected by those in the know. For the next three or four weeks people would want the cachet of knowing someone on the inside, so they could garner details of the demise and burial of my erstwhile boss. I could surely leverage that into at least a couple of meetings and more contracts.
The funeral! What on earth was I thinking? I reached for my iphone with one hand while frantically searching through my folders with the other. Damian Fitzpatrick’s wife Margaret (Margo to her lackeys, but only behind her back) was not the type to have organised the funeral herself. With any luck she was too busy dabbing at her eyes and practising her Poor Widda Woman look to have thought of the funeral; because if I could get in there first and assume command it would be the perfect opportunity for one last showcase of my talents. A discreet way of saying “Gun for hire, I can make even Damian Fitzpatrick look saintly.”
Margo answered on the third ring. I was half surprised that she answered herself; I thought she would have delegated call screening to one of her many daughters-in-law. Margaret Fitzpatrick had five sons, all cheerful rugby playing types and all bar one was married and had provided her with a brood of cheerful, middleclass, rugby playing grandchildren. Of course though, Margaret suffered from chronic insecurity at the best of times, always anxious that no other political wife or socialite stole a march on her. She probably feared one of her offspring or their spouse giving an impromptu interview over the phone to one of the redtops.
I pitched my voice somewhere between distraught employee and concerned friend.

“Oh Margaret……” trailing off as if I just didn’t know what to say would get her, I knew. She viewed me as slick and glib, and she would be on the lookout for any hint that I saw through her grieving façade to the cynical wagon beneath. Possibly she would guess that I was about as affected as her youngest grandson’s pet tortoise but it didn’t matter as long as we both agreed to make believe.
“Oh Caroline…” Margaret had worked hard to cover her culchie roots; no one would now recognise a hint of Leitrim in her carefully neutral accent. “How are you, how are you?”
“I’m – Carefully timed pause- doing okay. But never mind me, for goodness sakes. How are you? I just can’t imagine what you’re going through! I’m so very, very sorry.” Thus establishing her as Queen of the Drama, and paying tribute to her privileged status.
“Oh Caroline…I can’t tell you, I can’t begin to explain!” But she proceeded to do just that for five tedious minutes, while I made soothing noises and drew on my telephone pad. When she had fully exhausted her flow of clichéd grief, the opportunity arose to strike. “Well I know there’s very little I can do or say that will make this any better for you, but I just wanted you to know I’m here and I’m on your side.”
There was a delicious moment of silence as that sank in; then, hesitantly “On my side?”
“Oh yes, don’t you worry. I have your back. You know what those creeping bastards are like – I’ve had four journo scum on already asking about the funeral, is it going to be local, is it true O’Mahony won’t attend, Is the president coming home from abroad, that kind of crap.”
“Oh my god” she said faintly. “Oh don’t you worry,” I replied. “I told them nothing, except that it’s all in hand. O’Mahony won’t dare not attend, I’ll sort him out. I’ve already been onto the Arras and the president is flying home from her holiday.”
“Oh thank you Caroline! You’re such a rock!” her relief was genuine – any hint that the funeral would be less than stately would have spell disaster socially for her and assuming one of her freshfaced offspring planned on stepping into Daddy’s shoes, for them as well
“Not at all, Margaret. It’s the least I can do, the very least. I’ll have all the options for you by this evening, so you can look at it whenever you feel able. All I’ll need from you is the personal touch – after all no one could possibly know Damian the way you do. And the children of course.”
“You’re so right, “she said a shade too eagerly. The insecurity was setting in already. “No one knew him like I did. No one. Caroline dear, could you call over tomorrow morning and we’ll go through everything? Oh wonderful, wonderful. I know the children will be delighted to know they can leave everything in your hands. Such a rock. And if any more of those nasty journalists ring –“
“I’ll tell them I have everything in hand and details will be announced in due time.”
“In due time. Yes, I like that.”
It took a few more minutes of soothing and handholding before I could safely hang up. I didn’t bother replacing the handset, just speed dialled the offices of Jordan PR, and cut through Paula’s “receptionist” spiel. We were small firm, you understand and couldn’t always afford an actual receptionist so Paula and Stephen took turns at pretending.
“Paula, I need a press release, asap. Every paper, national, red tops, rte, tv3 – everything. Jordan PR is handling all the details of Damian Fitzpatrick’s funeral. That’s the main message, just dress it up in the usual “the family of the deceased request that you honour their privacy at this painful moment” sort of crap.
I love Paula, she never wasted time asking questions or complicating matters. Even as I spoke I could hear her clicking away at her desktop; that press release was as good as written. “Remember we’re close personal friends, I’m a colleague, this is a labour of love and at the family’s request.”
I knew she’d find some way to work it in. . I also knew I didn’t have to spell out to her how important this was for her, for all of us, for Jordan PR

Chapter Two.

The week after Fitzpatrick’s untimely demise was surreal. As much planning went into that funeral as into any society wedding or fashion launch and with far too many similarities not to feel that it was all a bit of a mad joke. The first thing was to jostle O’Mahony into a prime position in the service; he was as skittish as a colt about it all. The problem from his point of view was that if he took too prominent a position his political enemies would accuse him of trying to make hay out of his Minister’s death. But from our point of view we wanted him front and centre and looking as if he’d lost his only true friend. In the end it was Stephen who gently talked him into it, cleverly and calmly referring to him at all times as “such a special friend” to the family, “standing in such a unique relationship – not only colleague but party leader, not only leader but friend” until O’Mahony himself began to miss the old bastard.The President, bless her immaculate soul, was of course coming back for the funeral; she was a lady to her fingertips and knew what was expected of her.
Once we had the leader all the little sheep followed – there were TDs coming up for the funeral who rarely if ever showed up for voting. That took care of the politicos; which left the socialites. If politics was male dominated, the social side of the funeral was the stalking ground of the women, every one of them either dead from the neck up, mad with hunger, or power crazed. It was a minefield; these were people who could hold grudge til judgement day. And you never knew who would end up on the board of some charity and be in a position to award you that lovely contract. So it’s a case of never saying “no” – but you can’t say yes to everyone. This is the PR girl’s conundrum.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that the deceased left two mistresses, one of whom was an open secret and the other of whom was a deadly secret. The one everyone knew about but pretended not to was Elaine Dunne, the incredibly silly but attractive wife of one of Ireland’s leading broadcasters. Yes, the wife of dear Paddy Dunne, the nation’s favourite TV host was infatuated with the Minister for Justice, a man twice her age and twice as horrible as her husband. I mean, Paddy Dunne is no prize but at least his teeth were his own. And while he throws the average number of tantrums you would expect from a television star I never heard anything to suggest his temper was in Fitzpatrick’s league.
Nevertheless the lovely Elaine had been a regular in Damian’s bed for the past year and seemed utterly besotted with him. She was notoriously indiscreet; I knew Mark Jacobs had been driven demented by her antics, showing up at all hours and waltzing in to see the Minister. In the previous year I had become adept at keeping her name from even the most remote connection with Damian. She acted as if she was terrified of her husband finding out but did everything short of ringing a radio show to confess. And she was terminally stupid. I once had a conversation with her about fake tan. Fifteen minutes of her talking to me about fake tan. Earnestly.
She rang my mobile – my work mobile thankfully not my private number. It was 6.30 pm on the day after Damian shuffled off etc. I was already deep in funereal prospectuses and deciding what funeral parlour to go with when an unknown number popped up on the screen. I answered expecting it to be Diffney’s Discreet Undertakers or Family Funerals; instead I got the breathy tones of Ireland’s dumbest blonde.
“Caroline” she wailed, “Oh Caroline…”

Oh Christ.
I could barely understand her, she was gulping and sobbing so heavily. It was nard not to feel sorry for the poor cow – whatever her faults she seemed genuinely distraught at losing her beloved Damian. At least someone mourned him. By dint of listening carefully I finally made out “I-I can’t believe it. I can’t. Oh god, what will I do?” and sighed. “Elaine, I’m terribly sorry but –“
“Why didn’t you tell me? I heard it on the news! How could you be so heartless..”
“Eh, I only heard it myself moments before it was announced, Elaine. How could I possibly have told you?”
“You should have told me, I was his love, I was his little Bunny” Oh Good God. “You should have found a way….have you any idea, any idea how it felt? Hearing it on the news like I was nothing to him, nothing!”
Ah here. I couldn’t spend all evening on the phone listening to this. “What do you mean, Elaine?”
Silence, suspiciously free of sobbing. In a much sharper tone she said “What do you mean?”
“Well I know you were friends, but why should you be told first? After all his wife and children are the most important people in all this, I’m sure you’d agree. Friends have to come second, with the best will in the world.”
I could almost hear her brain creaking as she tried to catch up. Welcome to reality, Elaine. You may have been his little Bunny but Margaret is his Widow and in Ireland, Widows trump Tramps, every time. Plus without Damian, I suspected she wouldn’t want to lose her husband just yet.
“Well, um, yes – obviously. But, Damian and I were specially friendly”
“I don’t follow, sorry.”
“Um. Damian and I – I mean, I would have thought someone would have told me…”
“We seem to be going around in circles Elaine. I understand you’re very upset – we all are. I’ll pass your condolences onto his widow and family, shall I?”
Silence. “Um. Yes. Thanks.”
Good gods in their heavens, spare me. Did she really think anyone was going to acknowledge her publically as Damian’s grieving bit on the side? I shrugged and got on with the business of arranging a state funeral!

It was a few days later that the other shoe dropped. The other, Other Woman (if you’ll forgive the pun.) I was a little taken aback; we had bet on her remaining stoically silent but apparently there was a chink in her armour – something the press would have paid good money to know. In fact, it did cross my mind that should all else fail I could always sell the story to the papers – there wasn’t one who wouldn’t pay good money for the story that our leading female politician, Minister for Education, loathed by one and all, had been merrily bedding the Justice minister for the last five years.

Lillian Roche was in her late forties and looked every minute of it. Her style was homely Donegal tweeds and sensible shoes and almost everyone was convinced she was lesbian. Only a handful of us, namely Mark, Damian’s brother Liam and I knew that she was in fact straight, had a reputation for kinky tastes and apparently, an insatiable sexual appetite. At least that’s what Damian insisted on confiding in us late one night while in a tired and emotional state. I shuddered to contemplate it to be honest. Lillian had a permanently aggressive expression, what my mother would have termed a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle. She looked as if she might devour her mate after sex, and cuddling her could only be likened to snuggling up to an angry forward prop. Yet she had Damian eating out of the palm of her hand in a way that Elaine could never aspire to. Damian wasn’t renowned for his loyalty to anyone but in his own warped way he was loyal to her. Various political scandals had dogged Minister Roche – the exam papers for sale scandal in some of Ireland’s top fee paying schools or the sacking of a pregnant teacher by a catholic secondary – and despite the entire country pretty much agreeing she was incompetent, deluded and impossible the Government hierarchy had stood by her, to a man. From which I deduced that Damian hadn’t been her only conquest.

Unlike Elaine Dunne, Minister Roche was a mistress of self control. In the days following his death Damian’s mistress never once so much as twitched an eyebrow despite giving many solemn interviews and sound bites on the sad loss of a valued colleague. Damian’s brother Liam, who had been the Minister’s right hand man, handed me a copy of the Irish Times with a sigh; there was a large spread featuring Lillian being interviewed about the possible candidates for Minister of Justice, discussing her deceased lover’s replacements with no visible signs of trauma. Liam was a nice man, whose only real fault had been throwing his lot in with his Machiavellian brother. He’d been abused and debased for most of his adult life and once confided that if he had any other skill set he would leave Damian’s employ in the morning. I hadn’t had a chance to ask him yet what he was planning on doing now that the Minister was dead but I had a couple of ideas of my own on that subject. Making a mental note to talk to Liam about ghost writers and a biography of his beloved brother, I moved on with my day – until Lillian Roche herself appeared in the Leinster house offices, moving purposefully towards me with what a lesser woman might think was menace.
“Good morning, Minister,” I smiled sweetly. “How can I help you?”
She grunted, her bony lined face a mask of disdain. “So you’re organising this bloody funeral then?”
“I beg your pardon?” Good god the woman had no manners. The rules were, I could call it a bloody funeral in the privacy of my own head but having half the Oireachtas gossiping that I allowed Lillian to do so was a different matter. She snorted and then with a pointed sneer, shut the door that separated my cubbyhole from the rest of the room and rolled her eyes.
“God you’re such a crawler aren’t you. Still licking his arse even though he’s in his grave!”
“Actually, he’s not in his grave Lillian, that’s rather the point. Where I’m from, it’s manners not to refer to the deceased’s funeral as if it was an inconvenience.”
I could tell she’d love to smack me; I think I actually saw her fist clench and unclench in her lap. Fuck it, I thought. I may have to play nice most of the time with an bunch of appalling fools but no matter how much I try to get with this one, she will never like me anyway - so I may as well be honest.
“Don’t get smart with me.” Her eyes fixed on mine in an attempt to intimidate me; it was a good attempt. “It’s bad enough you’ve made me walk down here to find out what’s happening. You couldn’t be arsed coming to see me, could you?”
Hole god, did every woman Damian ever shagged expect me to contact her and give her a special role in the man’s funeral?
“I don’t understand your point, Minister Roche. Did your secretary not get a copy of the order of service?”
She snorted. “Don’t speak to me like I was just another colleague of his. You know better than that.”
Time to employ that hard neck and brazenness for which I am justly famed.
“Do I? I’m terribly sorry Minister but as far as I am aware, Minister Fitzpatrick held all his cabinet colleagues – indeed his fellow party members- in equal esteem” He did, he thought they were all awful gobshites.
“Are you trying to rile me, girlie?” Minister Roche practically snarled, leaning forward across my desk. “Are you? Because I’m not in the mood to put up with any shite from a little bitch like you. You were Damian’s Lackey when he was alive and I’ll bet you’re Margaret’s now, aren’t you? Now, drop the fucking playacting. You knew fine well about Damian and me. What the hell do you mean by not informing me of the funeral arrangements in person?”
“Only those directly involved in the service need one to one coaching, Minister, all you have to do is attend. I fail to see what exactly you wanted me to do? There is no need for you to know any part of the arrangements other than the time it starts, where you sit and whether the family want flowers.” I stood up. I can be quite impressive when I try, being almost 6 foot has it’s advantages at times. I extended my hand and finished, “I’m sure Mrs Fitzpatrick and Damian’s family will be touched that you stopped by personally but there’s no need for you to trouble yourself. The family have decided on everything, and as long as they’re happy, I’m sure we all are. After all, they’re the important ones, arne’t they?”
Lillian’s face turned a very unattractive shade of red and she actually shook with anger. “How dare you” she hissed, but she stood up all the same. “You’re a smart little cow aren’t you” was her parting shot as she stormed out.
So sue me, I don’t like women who sleep their way to power. Elaine Dunne might have been silly but at least she never took anything from Damian; Lillian Roche was bitch.

And now she was a bitch who hated me. Some days you just can’t get it right.

Chapter Three

“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ,
through whom we have gained access (by faith) to this grace in which we stand, and we boast in hope of the glory of God.”

I closed my eyes and let the sound of Monsignor Flanagan soothe my frazzled nerves. No one delivered a funeral reading like the good Monsignor – I had planned on having the Taoiseach or one of the political big wigs read but when Paula had suggested Flanagan it was a stroke of genius. If you are ever planning an important funeral – ah you know what I mean, obviously all funerals are important yada yada but a really important, public one you can’t go wrong if you have an Archbishop celebrating the mass and a Monsignor reading. Flanagan was also not merely a Monsignor, but a leading advocate of civil rights, liberalism, reform of the church, social justice – Damian’s miserable soul benefitted by his mere presence. At first the Monsignor had been a little reluctant but Paula’s mother knew his mother and between them they arranged it. In return I made Margaret give him a generous donation for his favorite charity.

All in all it had gone swimmingly. The family were troopers; Margaret of course did her weeping widow act but in the circumstances it was appropriate. The boys were genuinely distraught, you had to feel for them. I suppose whatever faults Damian had as a husband, politician, boss and generally as a human being, he had doted on the boys and their families. I glanced at them; they were all very similar, big tall well built rugby loving men with high colour in their cheeks and sandy hair. They were all attractive enough in a generic way; none of them devastatingly handsome, none of them evil looking. They were all married except the second youngest – Rory. The others – David, Paul, Francis, and James – were all attached to nice looking women who were well groomed without being glamourous. I wondered how Margaret would cope with a high maintenance daughter in law. Probably by stabbing her through the eye.

I hovered a discreet 4 rows back from the family. The whole of the Pro-Cathedral were filled with the great and the good but the first four rows boasted the greatest of those. O’Mahony, and the cabinet; President MacAongusa and her husband of course were guests of honour, and around her were clustered some of the opinion leaders and movers and shakers of Irish society. Once you left the warm rich glow of the front rows you met the second tier, very rich builders and the horsey set shoulder to shoulder with the It people and the Media stars. Usually at events like this the back rows were the social equivalent of the outer regions of Siberia but today even the worst pews were filled with important names and faces.

The Eulogy had proved to be tricky. Ideally from my point of view the bigger the name the better – I would have asked Barack Obama to pop over (if only Damian had been from Offaly!) but the family naturally wanted it to be one of the sons or a close relative. We suggested Liam but in the end the eldest of the Fitzpatrick boys David took the lectern. He did a standard but sincere eulogy, about how lovely his dad was, how much they loved him – and he did it well. Then the renowned writer Darby Little – poet, playwright, general pain in the hole – read one of his excruciating verses dedicated to the memory of “A great statesman.” As usual he adopted a dirge-like drone quite unlike his real accent, that official “poetry reading” voice that always makes me want to scream. But it went down well with the congregation most of whom couldn’t tell a Walt Whitman from a nursery rhyme but liked to feel they had been exposed to culture every now and then. Finally Catherine Thompson the soprano sang “Nearer my God to Thee” which compensated for the previous idiot. And so the service wound on, without any hitch, until the final “Go in Peace” and the undertakers moved in to quietly arrange Fitzpatrick boys as the pallbearers.

The family exited solemnly, Margaret flanked by daughters-in-law who fussed over her and tended to her with elaborate concern. I slipped out the side entrance and legged it round the front to oversee the transfer of coffin and mourners into cars – and found myself almost eye to eye with Detective Sergeant Doyle.
“Oh, ouch, sorry” I rubbed my elbow having cracked it nicely off the wall in an attempt to avoid cannoning directly into him.
“Miss Jordan.” God he could make good morning sound like an accusation.
“Detective Sergeant,” Two could play at laconic so they could. I went to dodge around him but he shifted very slightly barring my way. Over his shoulder I could see the heads of mourners emerging from the church porch – I had to get out there. “Sorry, I have to just get round you – I have to go help…”
He gave me another long, cold eyed stare and then moved just enough to let me go by. My face went red for no reason other than that weird feeling you get when someone has treated you rudely but you can not for the life of you see why. “Thanks” I put as much sarcasm as possible into that one word then sped away.
Not a moment too soon as well; I caught one of the daughters-in-law clambering into the lead limousine and the driver of the third car was apparently unable to speak English and was not at all sure where the cemetery was. As ever after an Irish funeral the mourners were happy to mill around and talk for half an hour – it had been the same the night before at the removal, only worse because they didn’t have a burial to go to afterwards – and it bought us some time to sort out who should be in which car and to nick a sat nav out of a journalists van and install it in Gorgo’s limo with the cemetery address keyed in.
Throughout all this I kept a weather eye on the crowd and now I knew what I was looking for, I spotted not only DS Doyle but his older colleague and several other young men who could only be gardaí. The special branch were of course out in force anyway but that’s normal at an event like this, like traffic cops they’re a necessary evil whenever more than one Minister gathers in the same place. But Doyle wasn’t the usual SB man; and neither by the look of them were his posse.

Then suddenly, as these things have a tendency to do, the crowd dispersed and the family as one sat into the cars, as the hearse engine started with a low purr. Once again I had to leg it to my own car, which was parked ahead of the hearse – we had to get there before everyone else if only to beat the journalists back with a big stick. Only when we had the mourners established by the freshly opened grave did I relax a little; there was still the official wake to go but the public part, the part I could be judged on, was almost over. Stephen and Paula were pale with exhaustion, I owed them a massive “thank you” drink. But we had done an amazing job, and whatever happened at least we would go out with a bang. I tipped a nod in the direction of the coffin – “Goodbye you auld rip, it was a terrible but exciting four years. I just wish I’d saved my salary instead of spending it all. But who knew you’d die like that?” – and stepped back to allow the photographers take a few tasteful shots of the graveside.

The wake was to be held in Fitzpatrick’s home (caterers had been there since dawn) so just before the funeral broke up completely I touched Margaret’s arm and whispered that I’d go ahead and get things set up. She turned towards me and grasped both my arms.
“Oh Caroline, dear, you’re so good! What would we have done without you?” At least half a dozen people turned to have a good look at us, and the rest were also looking but a little more discreetly. I kissed her warmly on her cheek. “You’ve been so brave Margaret. Looking after these little things…it’s the least I can do.” Mutual admiration ensued for a a few moments until the next in line claimed her attention and I was free to leave.

Several long hours later Stephen, Paula and I were ensconced in the Neptune pub getting as drunk as three exhausted, underfed people can get after a day of manic activity. Which as it turns out was very drunk indeed. Stephen was inclined to be pessimistic – as the last person hired he assumed he’d be let go first, he said, and he would be so sorry to leave us. Not at all, I assured him, if we go bust, we all go together.
“What are our chances?” Paula asked wincing.
“All things considered, we are not completely screwed. We still have the Women in Need charity and the Best Buy chain store, and a lot of other small contracts. Without Damian things will be tough, god knows that bankrolled us through the lean months but if I can land us another political contract, or even some more large charity ones, over the next couple of months – we’ll be fine.”
“Fingers crossed then” Stephen said rather gloomily. Paula gave him a playful slap.
“It’ll be fine. Caroline always come through for us.”
While I was touched I couldn’t help feel her trust might be misplaced. For a week I’d thrown myself into organising the funeral, as if that alone would save us but here we were, Damian safely buried, and no replacement employment in sight. I tried to tell myself that I was being paranoid and worrying unnecessarily and that it was far too early to panic but later that night I awoke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. I had dreamt about walking into Diva’s nightclub, the venue of choice for the Irish Glitterati and some clipboard nazi had stepped out of the shadows screeching “you’re not on the list, you’re not on the list,” while various socialites and media types howled with laughter and pointed at me.
Things would be very different if we didn’t hustle up some work.

For a week all was quiet. October moved into November and we picked up some smaller contracts all right, and I was working on the board of “Catspaw” the charity for abandoned cats (the brainchild of the elderly, charming but batty Anglo-Irish Lady Foxrock.) But I still felt uneasy – it was all a bit scrappy and lacked the security of working as Damian Fitzpatrick personal PR adviser. With the Recession, Stephen opined, there’s no budget for extras like press advisers and public relations and I was half afraid he was right. Although without us the political system would be exposed to the ravening hordes of journalists and worse, it’d be boring and politicians would look uglier. “We must diversify,” Paula said sternly. “There’s always a way if we only look hard enough. We should try to think outside the box – what other types of work should we be bidding for? That kind of thing.”
“I’m only fit for this,” I said “My skill set is viciously limited.”

Week two started badly; I had to deal with a very neurotic marketing manager from Best Buy, one of those nervy women who constantly fret and double check everything and complain and fret and then triple check everything. My blood pressure was about to go through the roof when she finally settled on one of the proposals for an instore promotion and took her leave. She would ring as soon as she got back to Best Buy headquarters, to go over it all one more time, but at least I had a breather for half an hour. She was a classic example of someone promoted beyond their capabilities and her twitchiness bordered on OCD. Not my favourite type of person. I deeply resented every time I’d been patronized or passed over on the grounds that I was a woman, and in my heart I blamed silly women like that. If I was a bloke and had to work with her I’d hate all women too.
In a thoroughly bad temper I stalked around the office – shoebox sized, but very nicely decorated – and looked for something nice to eat.
“Why are there only crappy plain biscuits in the cupboard?”
Paula looked up from her computer and said calmly “Stephen bought them. He says we should try to cut costs and that no one needs chocolate biscuits.”
“I fucking do.” It was raining out. There was no way I wanted to go out into the cold and the wet just to get some flaming biscuits. “I’m going out to get some bloody biscuits.”
“Good for you,” Paula said. “Bring us back a Twix, will you? And a Bounty for Steve.”
I sometimes suspected that Paula was secretly mad about Stephen, the way she looked after him. Grumbling like a child I stalked off to the shops, and returned in an absolutely foul mood, having been rained on, jostled, made wait while the checkout girl answered her mobile and splashed by a passing taxi just as I got back to our office block.

I burst into the foyer of our little firm’s office suite and Paula appeared from nowhere waving frantically at me and mouthing “O’Mahony! Michael T O’Mahony” – just in time as it happened because the words frozen on my lips were not those suitable for the ears of a carefully nurtured Taoiseach. With a superhuman effort I rearranged my face into a pleasant calm expression, stuffed a mint Aero, a Twix and a Bounty back into the pocket of my coat and floated into the main office space. Michael T was sitting on our good chair, being plied with tea and biscuits by Stephen, while holding forth on the evils of Dublin traffic.
“Taoiseach!” I managed a credible moment of happy surprise and extended both hands to the nation’s premier. “How lovely to see you!”
“Ah Caroline,” he beamed at me. Stephen had obviously put him in high good humour. He put down his biscuit (good ones, I noticed sourly, they’d been holding out on me) and took my hands. “It’s great to see you, you’re looking very well!”
“Why thank you,” I gave him my bright and youthful smile, the one most male politicians like the best and said “What brings you to Christchurch in that weather?”
“AH, now..” Michael assumed a serious mien. “I’ve come to talk to you, Caroline, so I have.”
My mercenary little heart beat faster. “Won’t you step into my office?” I waved him into the tiny inner sanctum of Jordan PR and closed the door on the other pair. I eased myself into the nearest chair and insisted he take the larger, good seat. Deference can be shown in many subtle ways.
“Well now,” O’Mahony smiled his famous “man of the people” smile. “You did poor Damian proud with that funeral.” Cue a modest murmur along the lines of “least I could do” and “poor dear Damian.” He waved aside my protestations and said “Credit where it’s due, Caroline. I wouldn’t mind a send off like that myself, when my time comes. And you certainly ah, put Damian’s best side forward, eh? Very good. Very good indeed. So, now what?”
Now what, indeed. “Well, of course, it’s been a big change. Not a bad change in some ways, to be honest. Jordan PR is my brainchild, my baby. It’s been good to be more hands-on these last few weeks. We have a lot of clients at the moment, all wanting the personal touch and of course with Christmas coming….lots to do.”
O’Mahony nodded gravely. “I can imagine. But, say an offer was forthcoming, I take it you’re not dead set against coming back into the political arena?”
Yes! “Back? You mean, working for some Minister or other? I suppose – well, I don’t know. Damian Fitzpatrick wasn’t exactly an easy man to work for but it was so interesting and when you’ve worked for someone like that, it’s hard to imagine doing the humdrum sort of stuff.” In other words, I’ll do anything, please hire me. I hoped my face was carefully neutral but O’Mahony definitely had a twinkle in his eye as he digested that piece of bullshit.
“Well, now. I flatter myself that I can offer you a challenge. I don’t think the office of An Taoiseach could be described as humdrum, exactly. And now that Derek Fields is retiring, I can’t think of a better person to fill his shoes.” Derek Fields, the God of Media was retiring? I almost choked. He’d ruled O’Mahony’s career for twenty years, I don’t think Michael T had given an interview or bought a shirt and tie without consulting Fields. And rather than a humble PR role, he wanted me to take over Field’s position? The little voice of reason in my head screamed “Stop thinking, say yes. Please, for the sake of Jordan PR, Paula and Stephen and your mortgage, say yes!”

“Taoiseach! I-I don’t know what to say – except of course that I’d be delighted. Working with you, that would be the absolute pinnacle. There’s nothing I would rather take on than that role.”
Michael T gave a contented grunt. “Ah now that’s great.” He really did manage to convey a warm and humble persona, as if my accepting his job offer brought him genuine pleasure. “I don’t mind telling you, since Derek told me he wanted to retire I’ve been dreading trying to replace him. It’s not anyone could do Derek’s job, it’s a special position. It has to be someone with intelligence and sensitivity – and balls.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “I admired the way you handled Lillian. She’s a great woman but Jaysus she can be terribly difficult at times. I liked the way you protected Damian’s reputation, even in death. And of course, poor Margaret. She raved about you, absolutely raved. Said she’d have been lost. Imagine her having to deal with Lillian or Elaine eh?”
There really were no secrets in politics, I reflected.
“That kind of loyalty impresses me, Caroline. Plus you know how things work, but you’re a little outside the system. Derek started out like that, you know. No, I said to myself at poor Damian’s funeral, that’s the ticket. Get Caroline Jordan on board now while Derek’s still around and can bring you up to speed.” He gave a small sigh that suggested he really was relieved to have it sorted. “Derek will be in touch as soon as he’s back from Helsinki – he’ll be delighted you accepted. Hammer it all with him, and start with us as soon as possible, ok?”
OK? I practically threw rose petals in front of him as he exited. Judging from the pink excited faces on the other pair they had had their ears glued to the door for the entire conversation. Stephen produced an umbrella out of thin air, a nice black one with a proper wooden handle, and carefully shielded An Taoiseach from the elements as he swept out to his waiting car. Royalty couldn’t have been treated with more deference. Once the sleek black limo had pulled away and we were safely back inside, the three of us shrieked like banshees and danced around the office.
“Oh my god, Oh my god,” Paula said gasping “I can’t believe it. Jordan PR, advisers to the Prime Minister, gurus of the political world. Caroline, you’re a – you’re a kingmaker now!” Kingmaker was Derek Fields unofficial title, considering he had steered an unremarkable looking candidate from council seat to head of government.
“Ah jesus I’m a long way from that yet”
“You’re a baby kingmaker then,” Stephen gloated.
“Where are the biscuits? Where’s the chocolates?” Paula demanded. “I need something for the shock and awe.”
“Fuck the biscuits.” I said grandly. “Lets go for a long, decadent, liquid lunch.”

Chapter Four

“Caroline.” Derek Fields distinctive grumble was even more pronounced over the telephone. “Michael tells me you are coming on board with us. Delighted - I really am.”
He sounded sincere but then again he was a past master of faking sincerity. I had spent the intervening days since Michael T’s visit wondering would the job actually materialize. Once the euphoria wore off as usual the worry set in; it seemed far too good to be true. I knew from the papers that Fields would be back from Helsinki the previous day and waiting to see if he rang had made me sick with nerves. Yet here he was, and it seemed it was actually happening. I didn’t whether to weep with relief or puke with fright. This was a major step up, even from being Minister Fitzpatrick’s go-to girl. This was serious political influence. Okay so I was pretty damn good at politics and no one could work a media event like I could – but still. This was pretty major.

“I think the best thing is for you to join us as soon as you possibly can; I plan to announce my retirement in February so we’ll have roughly three months to bring you up to speed – not that you’ll need three months. You managed Damian Fitzpatrick beautifully over the last four years, I foresee no problems for you where Micheal T is concerned.” Christ almightly, Derek Fields just complimented me. I forced myself to listen rather than dance around the office screeching. “Mainly you’ll need to familiarise yourself with the ethos of Michael’s politics. He has a very strong public persona, and an image that has taken years of hard work to build. That’s sacrosanct. By all means update him; bring him into touch with the younger voter but above all he’s a serious, respected politician and the leader of this country. There are certain events he must do and some he can’t do under any circumstances, but you’ll be familiar with that from Damian’s office. Oh, that reminds me…” I could hear the shuffling of papers on his desk. “There’s going to be an announcement about the new Minister for Justice tomorrow, I thought you’d like to know.”
For some reason I just knew whose name he was going to say, a split second before he actually said it.
“Minister Roche will be leaving Education and entering Justice….” I fecking knew it, at some cellular level, I just knew it.
“This is going to be a major media event, as you can imagine,” he continued briskly. “I thought it would be an ideal time for you to come on board and see how things work around here, if it’s not too short notice?”
It struck me that the great Derek Fields was being extremely gracious and accommodating; in return I decided on honesty.
“Derek, I won’t lie to you. The opportunity to work with Michael T O’Mahony and the office of An Taoiseach, and to be honest, with yourself, is my top priority. I’ve offloaded everything else to my staff so I can start whenever you want me.”
There was a moment of silence followed by a small chuckle. “I appreciate that. I also appreciate you not giving me crap about finishing up big contracts and playing hard to get. Michael said you were straight – I’m very glad to see he was right. Come in tomorrow, early start. You’ll be trailing me around for a while, but I promise it won’t be boring.”
I put down the phone feeling strangely elated. In my chosen profession shallowness was a virtue on a par with godliness; it was easy to forget that there were serious people out there. The chance to do more than even Damian had offered – to work on really important political events, be the confidante of a party leader and prime minister, deal with the media on serious issues not just try to keep some Minister’s girlfriend out of gossip columns, was a chance in a million.
“You did more than keep Elaine Dunne’s name out of the papers, in fairness,” Paula said indignantly when I told her my thoughts. “You did an amazing job for that prick. You kept his good side in the public view and you forced him to take an position on all kinds of things that he would never have given a moment’s thought to, selfish old pig!”
“I think they’re lucky to get you,” Stephen added loyally and was rewarded with a beaming smile from Paula. He went red and returned to his pile of press cuttings and magazines. Once again I made a mental note to ask Paula what the story was – not that I had the slightest objection as long as they both stayed with Jordan PR.
“Ah in all honesty, while working for Damian wasn’t exactly on a par with planning supermarket openings for a pop starlet, it wasn’t on a par with what Michael T wants. One if , well, normal PR and media work. This is – well, it’s more than that, it’s being part of the inner circle, it’s serious and important.”
Paula looked at me anxiously. “Caroline, no offence but the last time you said something was important it turned out to be the shoe sale at Brown Thomas. You always say, don’t swallow their bullshit. They’re all the same, whether they’re socialites and Irish Models or politicians and businessmen, that’s what you always say.”
“I know, I know, and I am aware that I sound like a start struck girlie but if media, pr, whatever you want to call it, has a serious side, this is it. I’ll be making decisions about the leader of this country’s public image. That’s – that’s worth doing,” I finished lamely. The worst thing was, I was serious.

You’d think nothing much could go wrong between the day my job offer was made official and the next morning but hey, life has a habit of surprising us. I left work early – shamelessly early, blowing off a meeting with Ms Best Buy the world’s most neurotic incapable marketing manager. The plan was to go shopping, go home, get a takeaway, do a bit of light swotting on Michael T O’Mahony and his cohorts and then have a bath and an early night. Everything went according to plan until my takeaway arrived – I order from the same Indian in Ranelagh every time, they have my order on speed-dial. A nice boy called Giri usually brought it, a very obliging soul who often rang to tell me he was on his way so I could get downstairs and collect it without having to break my neck hurrying.
Tonight however I was caught by surprise – the buzzer went and a mangled voice said something that I presumed was “Takeaway.”
“I’ll buzz the door” I grabbed my purse and legged it; the arrangement was, I would buzz Giri in and he’d wait in the foyer out of the cold until I came down. Although, usually I’d be waiting for him, which suited us both. I trotted into the apartment block foyer, my slippers making an oddly comic slapping sound against the marble floor.
“Giri,” I started, then my brain caught up with my mouth. It wasn’t Giri, but Detective Sergeant Doyle, cold blue eyes and all.
“Oh.” I looked at him in confusion. Where the hell was my lovely Indian man with my lovely Indian meal? Doyle cast a disparaging look over my garb – sweatshirt, leggings and slippers, hair tied up, face embarrassingly free of make-up – and said “Is there some reason why you didn’t want me to come to your door, Miss Jordan?”
“What?” Fuck it! He thought I had known it was him over the intercom and had refused to let a respected member of an garda siochana call to my door. “Eh I thought you were my Indian.” This didn’t seem to clear any confusion so I elaborated. “I ordered a takeaway, all I could hear over the intercom was a garbled message, I assumed it was my food arriving, I came down to pay.”
He gave me a look that said “fool.”
“Right. Well, as I said over the intercom, I would appreciate a few minutes of your time. Upstairs,” he said pointedly. “I would like to speak to you in private.”
Totally thrown off balance I looked around me and hesitated.
“Um. Well, that’s fine but I’m just waiting for my food…”
He looked at me incredulously. Bugger him, I was starving and it was cold and what was the point of going back upstairs only to have to come down again in a couple of minutes when Giri arrived?
“If you don’t mind waiting until my takeaway arrives, I can certainly give you a few minutes.” I said firmly, trying to muster a little dignity. “But if that’s inconvenient, perhaps another time?”
He narrowed his eyes. “No, I’d prefer to talk to you tonight. I suppose we can wait for this takeaway to arrive.” He managed to imply that the takeaway was a fiction I’d invented solely to annoy him and that he’d relish waiting here while it failed to materialise.
“Well, you can always tell me what you want while we’re waiting,” I snapped. “there’s no one around so I’m sure it qualifies as private enough for anything you can possibly have to say?”
In response he gave a pointed look at the CCTV camera mounted in one corner. I nearly thumped him in exasperation. Like there was anything he could possibly have to say so important that a record of it on a crappy cctv tape was remotely important. I rolled my eyes – normally I’m perfectly polite to policemen, I’m inclined by nature to be on the side of Law and Order – but something about the smug-faced git rubbed me up the wrong way. Thankfully before I could ruin my political career by smacking a Garda a cheerful voice called out “Ms Jordan” and Giri, god bless him, appeared at the door waving.
Doyle watched in sullen silence as I paid for the food and exchanged pleasantries. His animosity was so evident, Giri said to me, his eyes fixed on Doyle “Are you alright, Ms Jordan? Should I stay?”
“Thanks,” really he was such as sweetie. “But it’s okay.” Some imp prompted me to add “This is Detective Sergeant, Giri, A Garda. Detective Sergeant Doyle.” Giri’s face cleared. “Oh very good.” I didn’t concur but at least one other friendly human being knew Doyle was visiting me late on a Thursday evening and that made me feel better for some reason. Doyle looked thunderous but said nothing, merely stalked upstairs beside me in silence. He stood in the middle of my living room staring around him with undisguised curiosity while I busied myself emptying my takeaway onto a plate. Well, okay, I emptied half the takeaway out as if I was one of those dainty girls who wouldn’t dream of stuffing an entire Lamb Korma and pilau rice into her face. I put the rest firmly in the fridge and strode to the tiny table. Doyle waited until I was sitting down, and had a mouthful of food in my gob before saying “So, you’re jumping into bed with O’Mahony now are you?”
Choking I tried not to literally spit the food at him as I spluttered “What the giddy fuck? What did you just say?”
Doyle raised one eyebrow and sneered. “I beg your pardon, I phrased that badly.” Somehow he made that sound like “na nah, na naaa na.”
“Yes,” I said icily. “You phrased that extremely badly. Is it possible that you could express yourself with a little less disrespect? What exactly are you asking me?”
To my surprise I was rewarded by a tiny flicker of embarrassment across that smug façade. He cleared his throat and looking anywhere but directly at me said in a far politer tone of voice, “Sorry. What I meant to say was, I understand you are about to join Michael T O’Mahony’s staff. As next in line to Derek Fields, if I’ve been correctly informed.”
My head spun slightly. No official announcement had been made, to the best of my knowledge and I had been far too paranoid about it all going belly-up to even consider telling anyone outside of Jordan PR. Even my mother didn’t know. It wasn’t a secret exactly. It just wasn’t common knowledge and why on earth anyone who might have known would have bothered telling DS Doyle – and why DS Doyle would be remotely interested - was beyond me. For a wild moment I considered denying just to see what he would say but I settled for “So?” which while not a sterling example of my wit and repartee at least bought me time to think.
“So it’s true?” He sniffed. I couldn’t help but feel it was a disparaging sniff. “That’s some gig, isn’t it? Second in command to Derek Fields? Heir apparent to him, I should say. Quite a leap from being Damian Fitzpatrick’s PR girl.”
If the man had any point in mind other than annoying me I failed to see it.
“Actually I don’t know if you have the faintest idea what the term “public relations” actually covers but where Minister Fitzpatrick was concerned I had responsibility for presenting serious and important issues to the scrutiny of public opinion.” It might sound like I was quoting from my own CV but at least it was more dignified that “Fuck off with yourself.” “While my new role will obviously be somewhat different, it is a natural progression for someone who has worked closely with a senior Minister of State.” That sounded good, actually, and a lot more confident than I felt. Doyle shrugged. “No need to be defensive.” He leant back against my breakfast counter and smiled. “I seem to be rubbing you up the wrong way, Miss Jordan. So, you will be joining the office of An Taoiseach tomorrow morning?”
Sister Assumpta. It was just like been sneered at by Sister Assumpta. She had been the “uniform nun” in my school, her job being to prevent any outbreak of individuality among the gabardined unfortunates forced to attend the Stella Mari secondary. She used to catch me at every opportunity – skirt too long, skirt too short, tie not straight, no tie, and on one memorable occasion, purple hair – and her greatest pleasure seemed to be recounting a litany of my every shortcoming and predicting a swift and inglorious end to my pathetic life. Doyle had the same eyes and it seemed, roughly the same opinion of me. In fact stick a wimple and habit on him and it could be her.
But I had survived Sr Assumpta and I would be damned if some narky cop was going to speak to me like that. I lowered my fork, placing it deliberately on the table and stared straight at him, in complete silence. He remained slouched and smiling until it dawned on him that the silence had stretched far beyond anything comfortable. Staring at a point just above his head I relaxed and waited. He straightened up, fidgeted, coughed. I stared. He hummed and hawed and then ploughed on with “I’m not asking out of idle curiosity, Miss Jordan.”
“Dectective, I have no idea why you are here, or why you are interested in my career choices. I am however intrigued by your manner and at a loss to explain your rudeness. If you have anything to say to me, any reason at all for this visit, I suggest you spit it out or leave.”
God bless you Sr. Assumpta, I hated your guts but you gave me balls of steel and a resistance to interrogation that the CIA would envy.
Doyle coloured. “Obviously, I wouldn’t disturb you at home without a good reason,” he said stiffly. “This is a delicate situation.” Delicate? And they had no gorillas they could send instead of Doyle? “I must ask you to keep both this visit and the subject of this discussion private.”
“What subject?”
“The – um - subject I am about to broach.” He smiled tightly. “It concerns several rumours that have surfaced regarding Damian Fitzpatrick’s death.”
“Sorry?”
“Rumours. About how exactly Damian Fitzptrick died and what he was doing at the time.”
I think it’s fair to say I gaped. I gaped at him like a half wit.
“Damian? Minister Damian Fitzpatrick? But…he died of a heart attack,” Everyone knew this. Damian Fitzpatrick, politician and statesman, keeled over at his desk because of a heart attack. “Heart attack.” I repeated helpfully. “He died of a heart attack.” I may be blonde but it’s out of a bottle. Damian Fitzpatrick died of natural causes. He had to have.
“There are….complications with that version of events,” Doyle said. I stared at him. “You are surprised?”
“Surprised? Are you serious? Are you insane? Look, there was a whatsit, an autopsy thingie, wasn’t there? I mean the medical examiner said he died of a heart attack, Liam Fitzpatrick told me. How could there suddenly now be some doubt about that? It’s ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Nevertheless, rumours have surfaced that it wasn’t natural, and that other – other circumstances led to his death.”
This was mad stuff. I stood up, feeling strangely shaky. I disliked Damian but the idea that someone could murder him was horrible.
“Why are you here?” I demanded. “Why tell me all this?”
“You’re about to start working for Derek Fields. You’re about to start working for Michael T O’Mahony.” He surprised me by striding towards the door, and throwing it open rather dramatically. “You should be careful, Miss Jordan. Keep your eyes and ears open. And contact me if you hear anything of interest.”
“What?” He was gone, the door shut behind him. Without reflection I legged it to the door and put on the safety lock and chain. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had just had a conversation with a very unstable man; because that was the maddest tale I had every heard. And what did he mean, “rumours”? And what had any of it to do with Derek Fields or even more laughably, Michael T O’Mahony?
I sat down and stared miserably at my food. Damian had definitely died of natural causes, I was sure of it. On impulse I grabbed my phone and searched for Liam Fitzpatrick in contacts. He answered on the third ring, his friendly still-countrified voice sounding reassuringly normal.
“Liam?”
“Caroline? Ah Caroline how are you? You know what, I was just saying to Maureen, I wonder how Caroline is getting on! I thought I’d give you a ring next week, get you out for lunch?”
“That would be lovely Liam. Actually I have some ideas I’d like to run past you, if you’re interested. Some thoughts about projects for you, to be honest.”
“