“You must have known them all at that time,” I said. “Lar and Shea Temple, the Flannery brothers, Brock Taylor.”
Finnegan nodded, as if we were reminiscing about some glorious rugby heroes of the past.
“Oh yes, Brian in particular. I brokered the settlement with the Criminal Assets Bureau on his behalf. Brian’s done well.”
“He’s done very well. House on Fitzwilliam Square, The Woodpark Inn, and he seems to be buying up half of the surrounding area.”
“Yes.” Finnegan nodded. His face had contracted into that Oriental rictus smile again.
“Why do you think he’s doing that? In that area particularly?”
“I wouldn’t really know. I suppose there’s council stock there still to be had relatively cheaply, he estimates that it’s the coming area, just on the Castlehill/Seafield border after all.”
“And he’s quite the man in Seafield Rugby Club as well.”
“Is that right?” Finnegan said.
“Is that right? Sure you know that’s right, aren’t you to be found there regularly? You and Jonathan? Sharing a drink with Brock?”
Finnegan put his drink down on a small mahogany side table and repositioned himself in his seat, uncrossing his legs and planting his tiny feet side by side on the amber carpet.
“Mr. Loy, I’m not entirely sure where, as our American friends might say, you’re going here. The fact is, I represent many people. Outside of that, I live my own life. Brian Taylor, since he seems to have become the focus of your current inquiries-although at some point in the dim and distant past, I did understand you to be working on behalf of Shane Howard, but who am I to tell a man how to do his job?-Brian Taylor appears to be a reformed character. If it turns out that he is not, I will hear about it soon enough, in the form of a phone call. Until then, what he does is beyond my control. The fact that he has chosen to move in circles, some of which are congruent with mine, is unusual but not illegal; I don’t normally enjoy the society of my clients out of office hours. But then, few of Brian’s coevals share his urge to…‘better himself.’”
“Do you think it’s a bit crass of him, Denis? A bit embarrassing? Do you and the rest of the car-coat brigade up the rugby club find yourselves sniggering into your scotches at the presumption of the fellow?”
Finnegan’s head swiveled around, and his chin jutted forward, like a man in a pub ready for a fight.
“I’m a Northside boy myself, as a matter of fact. O’Connell’s, then a scholarship to Belvedere. I didn’t cycle up the Liffey on a fucking bicycle. I earned every penny.”
The accent had coarsened a little, but only a little; over the years, the polish had worked its way deep into the grain of Denis Finnegan.
“So you and Brock go back, do you? Back to Blessington Street?”
“I came from Wellington Street.”
“Near neighbors then.”
“We weren’t friends.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. Brock’s initial ideas for bettering himself were a little more short term than yours. But they seem to have worked out. Fitzwilliam Square still more fashionable than Mountjoy.”
“Once again, Mr. Loy, and while it is a continuing pleasure to talk to you, of course, I must ask-”
“It’s interesting, where people came from. And how they get where they’re going. I didn’t exactly start out with a silver spoon either. My father never really made a go of things. But for a while he ran a motor garage, quite near Woodpark. And the funny thing is, he had a fellow there working for him, name of Brian Dalton. Do you know who that was?”
Finnegan’s face was perfectly still.
“I think…and I could be wrong…that he and Brian Taylor are the same,” I said.
“And if they are…?”
“Well, I wonder if it’s interesting. Since a while later he married the Howard family’s heavily pregnant housemaid, and they moved into a house in Woodpark. And then he seems to have disappeared, and she was thought to have drowned herself.”
“And the child?”
“And the child was adopted. So you see, there are connections to be made. It would be extremely interesting to know what his proper name was, Taylor or Dalton. Someone who knew him back in the day should know that, at least. Then again, maybe you’re right, maybe it’s not that interesting at all. Why don’t we talk about property again? It’s still the conversational topic of choice in Dublin, isn’t it? And it’s what you chose to speak to me about when we first met-can it only have been two days ago? It feels like much longer.”
“It certainly does. Can I get you another drink?”
“Here, allow me.”
I took our glasses and the Macallan to the drinks table and, seeing my reflection in the window, checked to see if Finnegan was watching. He was staring into the fire, and it was the work of a moment to snap the top of the GHB bottle, drop a capful and a bit into Finnegan’s glass and replace the bottle in my pocket. As I poured the whisky and added water, I stared out the big sash window. The shutters were open, and I noted again how the windows diminished in size as the floors rose, how this one was smaller than the ground-floor window had been in Fitzwilliam Square. The congruence between Finnegan and Taylor, near neighbors as kids in a rough end of town, now residents of two of the city’s great squares, was setting off flares in my brain. The light from each revealed another stop on the map; I was counting on reaching my destination before the night was out.
“What I’m interested in is the will Shane and Sandra’s mother left. Remember, you were talking about it yesterday? You felt Jessica Howard was going to prove troublesome.”
Finnegan turned and looked at me as if he was surprised I was still here.
“And why should that be of any moment, Mr. Loy?”
“Because it gives several people a motive for wanting her out of the way. As you reminded me, I’m working on behalf of Shane Howard, and if he’s not the only one who might have profited from his wife’s death, well, all the better for him.”
I gave Denis Finnegan his drink and sat down across from him.
“I spoke to the Guards in Seafield about this myself.”
“And what did you say?”
“Mary Howard stipulated in her will that Rowan House was to go to Shane and Shane alone.”
“Yes, but Shane and Sandra were locked in a dispute over what to do about the bequest. Shane told me he wished it had been split.”
“Well, in practical terms, Shane was behaving as if it had been.”
“What does that mean? That he agreed with the plan to build the fourth tower?”
Finnegan looked into his glass and made a face. I took a drink of mine and smiled. He shook his head.
“Did you mix the whisky with mineral water?”
I nodded, and Finnegan clicked his tongue.
“An unforgivable solecism, Mr. Loy. An excess of sodium. Still, a sin to waste it.”
He took a good belt of his drink and sat back.
“I think
“Why do you believe Shane would have supported the plan to build the final tower? He sounded at best neutral to me.”
“He knew Sandra wanted it. Shane has always been keen to see Sandra protected, ever since they were children. To make sure she wasn’t hurt. To make sure she got what she wanted. What she deserved.”
Finnegan was beaming at me now, his eyes flickering, the red dome of his brow glowing like exposed flesh. What was he asking me to believe? That Shane Howard had been the one all along, the one to ensure that Dr. Rock was free, that Finnegan was able to step forward, and now, the one to clear Jessica out of their way?
“I’ve tried to make that my job also, as her husband. I don’t know that I can say I’ve succeeded. We effectively live apart now. I know I’ve failed in many respects, although I think I have been a good father-yes, ‘father’ is not too strong a word-to young Jonathan. But I know too that I’ve always given of my best. And I always have been,
