by Eoghan Egan
‘Hmm. I’ve drawn up a list.’
Sharona stood and leaned a hip against the desk. ‘I’ve an appointment at twelve, so I won’t hang around, Charlie. What was the phone call about?’
‘Did I ever mention Dorothy Ridgeway?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘She’s a friend. Lives outside Belfast. We’re involved in a cross-border fundraiser. Her husband, Blake, died last year, which made her reflect on her own mortality. Dorothy wants to downsize her property and asset portfolios, so she’s putting most of their art collection up for auction. Two experts from Hattinger’s completed an inventory last week. You know Hattinger’s?’
‘I applied for a job with them a while back, but never got an interview. I’ve visited a few of their galleries. They do little for local artists, and that’s where I see a gap in the market.’
‘And you’ll do well. Yes. I’ve bought several pieces from them over the years. When the appraisers left, Dorothy noticed a Frank McKelvey canvas had disappeared. She has a special grá for this piece, and is adamant she remembers where it was. Now it’s gone. Hattinger’s people say they didn’t see it.’
‘Stashed, maybe?’ Sharona said. ‘For security.’
‘Dorothy’s convinced Hattinger’s people mislaid it. She spoke to Ambrose, the company chairman. Threatened to get the PSNI to investigate. Ambrose doesn’t want police traipsing around, wouldn’t be good for business, so he compromised: Dorothy hires a consultant to help locate the McKelvey, and Hattinger’s picks up the tab.’
‘Why on earth would they do that if—?’
‘Oh, Dorothy can be persuasive. Salty as crisps one minute, sweet as sugar the next. She asked if I knew anybody who’d assist. You came to mind, with your art background.’
‘I’m not a detective, Charlie.’
‘You don’t have to be. The canvas is in her house. Help her find and validate it. Get compensated for your troubles. Could be a golden opportunity for you. Dorothy and Ambrose Hattinger are best buddies. If Dorothy likes you, she’d be a great business contact. This may be your doorway into the art world. Win-win.’
‘If it’s straightforward, I could confirm the painting, and yeah, I’d love a change of scenery for a few days.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Have you names of the people involved in the inventory?’
‘She mentioned Jana … something. Hattinger’s manager. Dorothy will fill you in.’
‘I may throw this back at you if—’
‘Go to Belfast. Find the McKelvey and send Ambrose Hattinger a fat expense claim.’
‘Well, that’d come in handy.’
Charlie scribbled on a Post-It note. ‘Here’s Dorothy’s mobile. Call her. Set up a meeting.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Sharona said. She stepped into the corridor. A man gripping a wad of A4 spreadsheets bumped her aside. He pushed into Charlie’s office, banged the door behind him. The force didn’t give the lock time to engage, and it bounced ajar. His angry voice flooded the hallway.
Sharona sped around the curved corridor, passed Malcolm’s office door, hesitated, then dashed downstairs via a fire door that squeaked shut behind her. In the reception area, she smiled at the two men signing in. ‘Hi, Hugh. Morning, Ferdia.’
‘Hiya, Sharona,’ Hugh said.
Ferdia turned. ‘The very woman. I’d planned to phone you, but between this and that …’ he scrawled his initials on the visitor pass.
‘Did you sort out the art gallery yet?’ Hugh asked.
‘I’m going to a meeting now.’ Sharona’s impish grin faded. ‘You’d think landlords would be happy to reduce rent and lease units, but no.’ She unpinned the ID badge, handed it to the receptionist, said ‘thanks, Deirdre,’ and turned back to the men.
‘Funny,’ Hugh said. ‘Few years ago they couldn’t give them away. Now they’d rather board them up and leave them idle.’
‘That’s what I wanted to ring you about,’ Ferdia said to Sharona. ‘That unit on the corner of Main Street and Bread Lane? It used to be—’ he clicked his fingers, ‘—whatyamacallit …’
‘Great location,’ Sharona said. ‘What about it?’
‘Later this week, I’m meeting a cousin of the man who owns it. If you’re interested, I’ll put in a word.’
‘God, that’d be great, Ferdia.’
‘There’s separate living accommodation upstairs too.’
‘Happy where I’m renting at the moment. Still, it’s all a question of money.’ Sharona’s grin was back. ‘Talk to your guy and get back to me.’
Ferdia turned to watch the woman leave. ‘Nice girl.’
Deirdre smiled. ‘Now, Ferdia. Sharona’s young enough to be your granddaughter. She’d do well in business. Great personality. Charlie shouldn’t be long.’
‘Grand. Malcolm around?’
‘He passed by a minute ago.’
‘We’ll find him.’
Upstairs, Warhol prints interspaced each office. Opposite, a bank of windows overlooked the town.
‘I didn’t realise Malcolm was here,’ Hugh said. ‘Thought he was still in university.’
‘Finished. Took the scenic route, but he’s got the business theory at last. Now he needs the practice. Has to get his hands dirty. This is where he parks his backside.’ Ferdia opened a door and peeked around Malcolm’s office interior. A jacket hung on the back of a chair, and a printer spewed out paper. ‘Empty,’ Ferdia called over his shoulder. ‘It’s like the feckin’ Mary Celeste round here.’
Voices poured from another portal. One muted; the other loud. ‘… you’ve delivered a decade of bad decisions …’
Ferdia twisted his head. ‘Huh. Bit of rí-rá ’gus rúille búille in Charlie’s office.’ He closed Malcolm’s office door, wandered back along the corridor and looked out at Mullingar Business Park, the Grand Canal and the landscape beyond. ‘Nothing beats it.’
‘What?’
‘The mystical, magical, mythological Midlands.’
Hugh looked across the foggy, snow-clad expanse. ‘Misty too.’
More heated words spilled out from Charlie’s office. ‘… yesterday you said tomorrow, Charlie. The figures are what they are. For God’s sake, rein in your expectations.’
‘Problem is,’ Ferdia’s raised voice cut through the angry tirade, ‘tourists make a mad cross-country dash for the coast and miss the fifth province. They think the Midland’s a feckin’ bog.’
‘And Electric Picnic,’ Hugh said.
‘It’s the Mid-lands. Mid-point between this world and the next. And the Hill of Uisneach, the Cat stone, is the centre of Ireland. Has a record going back to Saint Patrick, before Saint Patrick.’
‘I thought the middle of Ireland was in County Roscommon.’
‘Aye. Roscommon people say that, but they’re—’
The strident voice next door drowned out Ferdia’s words. ‘… interest should be the company, not employees, Charlie. Sell. Today. Or do you want an asset management company hammering down the door …’
Ferdia whistled tunelessly, took a wallet from his back pocket and removed a credit card. He pressed the card edge, and a knife blade sprung out. ‘If you’re not busy later, we’ll—’
‘I’ve paperwork to finish.’
‘—we’ll swing by Ciara’s place on the way home.’ Ferdia pared a thumbnail. ‘Say hello to my godson.’
‘Not heading into Pharma?’
‘Nah. There are enough people in the hive today. Couple of suits, efficiency consultants, for feck sake, have flown in from—’
‘… we have no more paddles, Charlie.’ The voice got louder. ‘We couldn’t borrow paddles to canoe our way out of this river of …’ The man who’d been arguing shouldered by and stormed next door into his own den. The partitioned wall shuddered when he slammed the door shut with a heel kick.
Ferdia strolled into Charlie’s office. ‘Reckoned I’d have to act as referee.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Another day in Para
dise.’ He beckoned Hugh in. The remnants of the row radiated around the room.
Hugh hadn’t seen Charlie McGuire for a few months. His grey-blond hair had become the colour of dirty steel, and he’d lost weight. Charlie looked at the bruise on Ferdia’s face. ‘How’d that happen?’
Ferdia folded the blade back into its credit card sheath and slotted it into his wallet. ‘Argh, I was sparring with a few boxers last week and got tagged. There’s this lad from Crumlin, even his feckin’ beard hurts when he rubs against you. Caught me with a solid punch. His left fist’s a sleeper. Spotted it coming, but hadn’t a chance to react. Packs serious power in them meat hammers.’ Ferdia rubbed his jaw. ‘Sure, it’s part of the tax every boxer pays.’
‘Ouch. Sorry for the delay, Hugh.’
‘No problem, Charlie. Ferdia gave me a history lesson.’
‘Oh, don’t wind him up. He can trace his descendants back to Niall of the Nine Hostages.’
Ferdia picked a random spreadsheet off an untidy pile covering his laptop keyboard. Numbers typed in red filled the page. He waved the sheet. ‘Always a link between past and present. You gotta look back to see forward. Study the past, and it’ll stop you making the same faults again.’
‘Should, but doesn’t.’ Charlie nodded to the Excel sheet. ‘Can’t remember last time I read a column of black ink on a financial report. Whatever the powers that be think, this economy’s still screwed. Bloody bankers have a lot to answer for.’
‘I agree,’ Hugh said. ‘But there were multiple factors—’
‘Not long ago, bank managers gave me whatever I asked for, seldom requested even a set of accounts. Now, guess what? They won’t even take my calls.’
‘No business is worth stressing yourself over,’ Ferdia said. He sailed the spreadsheet back onto the desk. ‘Close the feckin’ place.’
‘If life was that simple.’ Charlie sagged back in the chair and rubbed his forehead. ‘I’ve built this business on the backs of great individuals. Some are offspring of people my father hired. They’ve commitments. Families, mortgages … There’s a burden of expectation I have to shoulder, and I’ll move mountains to make sure they get a week’s wage. I owe it to them. Letting a hundred and seventy-three people go is not on the agenda. Bloody politicians. Money earmarked for job creation is funding government debt. If it were me alone, I’d lock the gates, but I’ve got to prioritise staff.’
‘Anything I can fix?’ Ferdia asked.
‘Thanks, but no.’
‘You’ll give yourself a heart attack, man,’ Ferdia added. ‘Pull yourself together. It’ll be grand.’
Charlie exhaled. ‘Fingers crossed, the business will improve by Easter.’
‘That’s the spirit, Chas. Every setback opens the door for a comeback.’
‘I should plan a burglary,’ Charlie said. ‘Or a fire. Claim on the insurance.’
Hugh shot a glance at Ferdia. ‘You’ll survive and thrive, Charlie.’
‘Huh,’ Ferdia said. ‘Long as you don’t do something legal, like run the business into the ground and repurchase it from the liquidator at a fraction of its current price.’
‘Yeah. Enough have done that. Anyway,’ Charlie shifted attention to Hugh. ‘You’ve had bad news.’
‘Got word yesterday.’
‘Wish I’d a management role for you, but all we’ve got at present is a part-time delivery job; our driver’s gone home to Slovakia. More work there than here nowadays. Sign of the times. I’ll pay you cash.’
‘I’ve to sign on for Welfare.’
‘Fair enough. We’ll keep the arrangement between ourselves. Here’s a thing: as a self-employed person, if I shut up shop today, I’m not entitled to claim dole. Isn’t it madness? After the millions in taxes and … Don’t get me started.’
Hugh hadn’t considered hauling boxes, but he needed the wage. ‘When can I start?’
‘Soon as Ferdia lets you go.’
‘Whenever,’ Ferdia said. ‘You’re due holidays so it won’t affect your redundancy.’
‘I’ll start in the morning, Charlie.’
‘Won’t be many deliveries until this weather clears, but our stores will need supplies. Tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to Brendan, the back store manager. Something more in your line may arise in a few weeks. I’ve heard rumours our manager in Ganestown is leaving, nothing official yet, but if it happens, the position’s yours.’
‘God, Charlie. That’s much appreciated.’
‘You’re welcome. Oh, stick Saturday night in your diary, Ferdia. Dorothy’s Gala Ball, if you can fit into a dress suit.’ Charlie tossed across an envelope to Ferdia.
‘This Saturday?’ Ferdia looked at his gut. ‘Doesn’t give me much time to lose this. Hafta use a weight cutting trick boxers use. Where’s it held this year?’
‘Herbert Park. She said to remind you to keep the first dance free.’
‘Depends what humour I’m in. How’s Dorothy?’
‘Argh, she’s had a squabble with Hattinger’s, the art and furniture people. You know them?’
Ferdia cracked a thumb joint. ‘Of them. They’re a clannish crowd. I break bread an odd time with Ambrose on the nineteenth tee. Get the impression he’d prefer wading through clouds of cigar smoke in a gentleman’s club and talking shite, than dealing with business.’
‘Dorothy organised an appraisal, and—’
Ferdia looked at his watch. ‘Land the feckin’ plane, Chas. I’ve got a to-do list the length of your leg.’
‘Me too. Anyhow, it’s more or less sorted. We’ll agree an hourly rate tomorrow, Hugh. Chat later, Ferdia.’
‘Grand. Slán go fóil.’
Ferdia lit a cigarette, sucked in nicotine. A trail of smoke curled in the frosty air. ‘That went well.’
‘Last thing Charlie wants is another employee,’ Hugh said.
‘It’ll be grand. Your foot’s in the door. You’ve no idea where this could lead.’
‘I’ll be driving a van, not running the company, Ferdia.’
‘Aye. Still, I bet you’ll be so good they won’t be able to ignore you. Step up and—’
‘I don’t mind stepping up to it, long as I don’t step into it. Logistics isn’t my forte. It’ll be a challenge to—’
‘God, but you’re a mighty fella to see hitches. I see this as a lucky break. I’ve said it before: opportunities knock, but they don’t notify in advance. In a month you’ll be managing the place in Ganestown an’ God knows where that might lead. No risk, no reward.’
‘If the place is still open.’
‘Give over, lad. This might be the step that’ll get you from where you are, to where you want to be.’
‘We’ll see. Did you hear the bit about the asset management company?’
‘Yeah, ’cept it wasn’t a question. More an accusation and an insult dressed up as a question. Anyway, it’s bullshit. I’d say those fellas have their sights set on bigger fish than Charlie’s half-dozen retail properties. Still, ’twould be his worst nightmare, having an asset stripper tearing the heart outta the business, and putting people on the dole. Row in and do your best. Once you’re on board, you’ll figure out solutions. Either lead change from the front or push from behind. Simple as that.’
‘I’ll be driving a … Anyway, simple issues can become complicated. It’ll take a lot of rowing to turn this ship.’
‘Nothing’s impossible. Use the six senses God gave you.’
‘I think you’ll find there are five senses.’
‘Check again.’
‘Sight.’
‘Correct.’
‘Sound, smell, taste—’
‘Hmm-mm.’
‘Touch.’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s the sixth one?’
‘The one everybody forgets to use. Common.’ Ferdia threw the cigarette butt away. ‘Best way to lead people? Give them direction and let ’em find their own path.’
‘Company’s in crisis, though,’ Hugh said.
&n
bsp; ‘Huh. The one thing wrong with Charlie is, he spends too much time working in the business, and forgets to work on it. You’ll be good at leading that change.’
‘Did you hear me? I’ll be driving—’
‘Jaysus, man. Embrace the challenge, willya?’ Ferdia closed the car door, settled into the seat and closed his eyes. ‘Now, take me to see my godson, an’ quit acting like an auld granny. Nag, nag, nag.’
‘Reality, reality, reality,’ Hugh shot back.
Afternoon
Snow clouds mushroomed above Slieve Bloom and Wolftrap Mountain.
The art dealer relished the effort it took to pull the wellingtons out of drifts. In the field where he’d buried Roberta Lord, the Hitachi tracks had disappeared. A tiny piece of black plastic wrap jutted from the snow, like a cigarette burn on a crisp white tablecloth. He looked at the grave, then inspected the field for burial spot number eight. Whoever she may be.
At the sheds, he forked silage, savouring the muscle strain. When he’d sweated the office stress from his system, he tramped to the farmhouse, had a shower and returned to Tullamore, mentally ticking off steps he needed to take. He ducked into an internet café on Church Street, set up a new Gmail account, clicked on free dating sites and spooled through the passport-sized photos. None stirred his interest. Combing through another search engine, he found a website offering a two-week free trial. He created a fictitious account and considered usernames.
Jewels, gems or diamonds would act as click-bait. The diamond merchant? The jewel designer? The jewellery collector? That’s it.
He dipped into Shutterstock and grabbed a royalty-free photo of a male whose features vaguely resembled his own. He downloaded, cropped and uploaded the image into his new webpage, studied the profile.
Perfect.
He saved the details and logged into the new account. The “how” part was set up. Now for the ‘who’ ‘where’ and ‘when’. He foraged for faces that stirred interest.
Click, scan. Next.
Click, scan. Next.
She was here. Somewhere. This trap would expand his skill set.
Click, scan. Next.
Click, scan …
Bidingmytime:
I’m a twenty-eight-year-old female, hoping this will be a
