Hiding in Plain Sight

by Eoghan Egan

  ‘Sounds like Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Huh. Wonder where this’ll end?’

  ‘We’ll know more in a few days.’

  ‘Any word from Eil—?’

  ‘No. And before you ask, I haven’t phoned her either.’

  ‘Aye. Best leave it for a spell. Cool heads an’ all that.’

  ‘Yeah. Where are you now?’

  ‘Dublin. David’s school is still closed. We stayed at Niamh’s place last night. We’re—’

  ‘Who’s Niamh?’

  Ferdia coughed. ‘A friend. I met her, I don’t know, a few weeks back. Next time she’s in Ganestown, I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘Is that the friend you gave the terrier—?’

  ‘God bless your memory. Yeah. Anyway, me an’ Master David—’

  ‘Stall a sec. Why didn’t you take Niamh to the ball last Saturday?’

  ‘She was busy, and sure, you needed a night out. David ’n’ me are off to visit my relations in the Zoo. Then we’ll check in on Grandad Chas. I’ll—’

  ‘So, Niamh is … significant?’

  ‘Argh, you know yourself. We’re getting on grand. That’s all I’m saying. I’ve put you on speaker. Say hello to Master David …’

  -----

  After sipping tepid coffee in the Tullamore Court Hotel, Adam Styne bought painkillers in a pharmacy, and continued up Church Street to the internet café. His dating website mailbox contained four new messages.

  One from a Russian dating agency.

  Delete.

  Three Ghanaians wanted to deposit twelve million euro into his bank account, once he’d forwarded bank details, plus an administration fee.

  Delete. Delete. Delete.

  He erased Ciara’s correspondence and declined DatingVista’s invitation to upgrade his account status. The site had served his purpose.

  No contact, no comeback. Won’t need it for Jana.

  Later, he rambled around the hotel foyer, conspicuous, before settling in with a newspaper. His life unravelled at ten a.m., when Hattinger’s company solicitor rang and told him about Jana Trofimiack’s arrest, the quantity of cash and the stolen Jack B. Yates piece.

  ‘Impossible,’ Styne lisped. ‘Jana hasn’t the brainpower of a …’ His tongue knocked against teeth and a stream of pain blinded him.

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s true, Adam.’

  ‘Is this connected to Dorothy Ridgeway’s valuation?’ Styne rubbed the pain from his forehead.

  ‘Yes. Forgery implication as well. Ms Trofimiack got nabbed before she boarded a flight to Warsaw. I advised the lady not to make a statement, to no avail. She admitted swapping Mrs Ridgeway’s McKelvey for a reproduction.’

  ‘God damn the stupid—’

  ‘Quite. You and I better meet tonight to begin preparatory work on a defence strategy. We need to leak our story to the media in advance and control the message.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m aware—’

  ‘It’s essential we frame answers for the inevitable police and journalist’s questions, Adam. My sources tell me the PSNI have queried dozens of thefts and switches.’

  ‘Ridiculous. The woman isn’t capable of, or smart enough to—’

  ‘Three years, Adam. Ms Trofimiack admitted it’s gone on for three years. That’s a lifetime for management not to suspect. It doesn’t bode well that this con got plotted, prepared and executed under your guard.’

  ‘How could I suspect if collectors didn’t?’

  ‘It’s obvious the victims were chosen with care, Adam. But—’

  What else did she say?’

  ‘Ms Trofimiack requested another solicitor to represent her, so I’m not privy to her latest statements …’

  Styne dumped the vacuum cleaner into an industrial bin at the side of a restaurant and drove to Kilcormac. Time to involve Madeline. Agitated, he called the solicitor back. ‘What’s happened since? I want more details.’

  The details weren’t pleasant. Two more arrests in London, and one at Hattinger’s Manchester branch. ‘Jana’s taken my advice, albeit too late, and refused to speak until her new brief shows up,’ the solicitor added. ‘The others have underplayed their involvement, in return for reduced sentences. At present, the score stands at forty-three.’

  ‘Forty-three what?’

  ‘Pieces of art. Police have procured confessions for either exchanged or stolen property amounting to—’

  ‘Forty-three?’

  ‘Yes. And as they’ve accrued that much information within a few hours, Adam, who can foresee where it’ll end?’

  ‘What’s your guess?’ Styne asked. ‘How extensive will it get?’

  ‘Colossal, I’d say. On average, at fifty, sixty grand a pop, well, you do the math. Oh, and we’re awaiting detectives from Harcourt Square. Rumours abound the gang was targeting collectors from the Republic too, and there’s speculation you’re intertwined in the mix.’

  ‘That’s ludicrous—’

  ‘I know Adam, I know. It’s an unwarranted, unfounded, unsubstantiated fishing expedition. But in these matters, the cui bono question is always asked.’

  ‘How could I benefit? What possible—?’

  They’ll sling everything at you to see what sticks. Your business dealings will get scrutinised. Even simple things, goodwill gestures, every little … will be perceived as a bribe. Have you considered what to salvage from this rubble?’

  ‘How could I? That’s what I pay you for.’

  ‘In my opinion, this caper’s too vast to stay under wraps.’

  ‘Then find a way to convince clients—’

  ‘I don’t see any walk-away position here, Adam. There’ll be no winners. No amount of spin can mask the gravity of this debacle.’

  ‘Well, better start earning your wages. Update me in an hour.’

  -----

  A steel clang reverberated around the prison.

  Jana Trofimiack sat on the thin mattress and eyed the graffiti-riddled, foul-smelling cell. Her feet were numb. They’d taken her shoes and replaced them with extra-large paper slippers that were no barrier to the bakterie crawling on the cement floor.

  Her toes curled.

  The shame she’d brought on her family. Images of Lech’s face as the police led him away, haunted her mind. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored the food tray with its hash browns and rasher, swimming in globules of grease. She’s made an error asking for Hattinger’s solicitors. They’d no interest in her. Their concern was Adam Styne. How to zwolniony, absolve his name. And how could she think straight? She’d thought someone was stealing her luggage. The alarm, panic. Arrest. Lech ripped from her arms. Jana rubbed her hands together, smearing the fingerprint ink further, and glad Lech hadn’t witnessed that procedure. Processed, they’d called it. Treated her with the same concern as a dead sheep. She’d hate him to see his maia powerless and defenceless. Where had they taken him? Nobody talked to her. Nobody cared. She wondered what went through Lech’s mind when he saw the policjant handcuff his maia. Had he forgotten her already? Was he imagining she’d abandoned him? Hadn’t she always said Maia would look after him? Lech understood she’d never desert him. Didn’t he? Where was his imagination now? Was the new solicitor interested in her case? Bah! Not enough to visit before his breakfast. It felt like she’d been a month in this wiocha. Jana bowed her head and whispered: ‘I’ll be with you tomorrow, Lech. I promise.’ She tried to blank his teary-faced image, as her brain whirled and plotted. What deal would get Lech back?

  The imperceptible click of a lock sounded loud as thunder. The cell door opened. A prison guard looked in and pointed at the hallway. ‘Interview room. Your solicitor’s here.’

  The solicitor looked young. Too niedoświadczony, inexperienced.

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ Jana asked him.

  ‘A judge will decide your detention pending a trial date. Or you might get bail.’

  ‘Kiedy?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘When?’

 
‘Two, three days.’

  ‘Why detain me? My son—’

  ‘The judge may grant bail if he’s certain you’ll appear whenever the date’s set. Possession of stolen property is a bailable offence.’

  ‘How much is bail?’

  ‘Depends on how critical the court deems the crime.’

  ‘When is court date?’

  ‘Six, nine months.’

  ‘Six …? What’ll happen—?’

  ‘Police will object to bail on the grounds you’re a flight risk. You’d purchased a one-way ticket to—’

  ‘If they object, where will I go?’

  ‘Nowhere. You stay here.’

  ‘I can’t … How can I namawiać … persuade the police not to … object to bail?’

  ‘Show the judge you’ve got ties within the community. Get character references from your employer.’

  Jana considered this as two police officers joined them. Character references? From Adam Styne? Hah! Fat chance. If she paid bail, she’d lose the pieniądze squirrelled away for her art gallery.

  The woman officer smiled. Jana took that as a positive sign.

  ‘Are you taking any prescribed medicines, Jana?’

  ‘No medicine. Where’s my son?’

  ‘If you’re hungry or thirsty, tell us. We’re not savages.’

  ‘I know my rights.’

  ‘Have you got family nearby?’

  ‘Where’ve you taken my son? I want—’

  The male officer pulled out a chair and sat across the table. ‘Should’ve considered that before you thought up this scam.’ His cold stare and loud voice setting the tone of the interview. ‘We have you now.’ He leaned forward and spoke with exaggerated glee. ‘Tomasz snitched. Grassed you out to save himself, he did. Sang like a blackbird. You’re the brains. Lech will be a grown man next time you walk the street together, in, oh, I’d say twenty years.’

  ‘Co? No. That’s untrue. I’m not … you don’t understand how much my son misses me. He needs me.’

  The policeman snorted. ‘The boy doesn’t give you a get-out-of-jail-free card. After your conviction, Social Services will decide where he goes. Wales. Or maybe Scotland.’

  Jana’s idea of manipulating the legal system vanished like water down a plughole. She glanced at the lawyer. He didn’t return eye contact.

  The reasonable female officer spoke. ‘The Public Prosecution Service Office will need convincing you’re guilty of a crime. They’ll decide.’

  ‘Decide what?’

  ‘Whether there’s enough evidence to convict—’

  Her colleague sniffed. ‘That’ll take two minutes with the proof we’ve collected.’ His pitiless eyes gave Jana no hope.

  The woman scowled at her colleague. ‘—to convict, and if a trial is the best option in the public interest.’

  ‘How do I get bail? I must see Lech. He—’

  ‘Cooperate. Answer our questions. Plead guilty to handling stolen property. Throw yourself at the mercy of the court. I’ll put a word in for you.’

  The man grunted, threw a biro on the table and strode out.

  The woman smiled. ‘Don’t mind him. We can appeal for a monetary penalty if you give us information that will lead us—’

  Jana looked at the lawyer, seeking approval or encouragement. He thumbed through a notebook and didn’t look up.

  ‘Get my son,’ Jana said. ‘Then I’ll tell you wszystko. Everything.’

  -----

  Hugh was parking at McGuire’s when his phone rang.

  He looked at the number, and his blood pumped, primed for a positive response from Midland Recruitment. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hugh? It’s James. Quick call about that position. The company has shortlisted the candidates for interview—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Didn’t include you in the mix. Sorry. They’re concerned you’re over-qualified, that you’d see this job as a fill-in until your preferred position arises. I expect other management roles will pop up before the end of the month. I’ll be in touch.’

  Hugh’s heart plummeted. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to revisit the social welfare office or drive the rickety old Hiace again. Brendan Enright waved from the warehouse entrance. Hugh walked towards him and called, ‘I’ll start deliveries.’

  ‘There’s an order for a builder in Edgeworthstown, but no stock,’ Brendan shouted back. ‘I expected a delivery last Friday, but the supplier couldn’t deliver.’ He shrugged. ‘This weather.’

  ‘God. A wasted trip.’

  ‘Should’ve rung you. Sorry. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.’

  Hugh U-turned, frustrated. ‘I’ll check in with Malcolm.’

  ‘He’s not here. Could’ve gone to visit Charlie …’

  Mid-Morning

  ‘Did Jana give you any inkling?’ Madeline asked Adam when he furnished her with bare details. ‘I’m sure you’re not involved—’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’ Waves of anger radiated off Adam Styne. ‘Why would I place my life’s work in jeopardy? For a paltry … On a shitty …’ His voice sizzled like lightning hitting a power cable.

  ‘Don’t worry. This too will pass.’

  ‘Pass? Pass? Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? You’re delusional if you think this issue will disappear. Media will tar me with the same brush. I built the business on customer loyalty, trust and confidence. My company’s dead; no one will have faith. We’re destroyed. Everything I’ve accomplished …’ Styne’s tongue hit a loose tooth, and a dart of pain exploded in his brain. ‘Ruined. Kaput. My reputation is junk bond status. I’m a pariah. All because of that Polish …’

  Styne withdrew into the study, seeking ways to infuse a positive twist, rejecting each idea as unworkable. How did his precise, controlled life turn disastrous in the space of twenty-four hours?

  Madeline interrupted her husband’s thought stream, called him to watch a news bulletin. RTÉ’s sombre crime correspondent described how a joint cross-border Garda and PSNI operation foiled an art theft scam. Four people were in custody, with more arrests imminent. A police spokesperson said that although the crime ring was international in scope, it centred in London. Several addresses in Northern Ireland and the UK were being searched.

  Styne flicked onto BBC and Sky. They showed similar versions of the same story.

  Pain and pressure pounded his brain. He wanted to smash the television, but the ticker tape rolling the Hattinger news story across the bottom of the screen lured him to stay, and an on-screen strap highlighted updated breaking news regarding arrests and searches. This was ruination. He massaged both temples. It didn’t ease the pain. ‘I’m wiped out. Annihilated,’ he said. ‘The business has collapsed around my ears, and there’s nobody, nobody I can get on board to solve this nightmare.’

  Madeline bit a nail. ‘This stress is frazzling me, Adam. I’ll go help Ambrose draft media responses—’

  ‘I forbid you to let Ambrose near the media. His dressing up meaningless prattle and extraneous guff to mask the stench of his ineptitude won’t help. I don’t understand how the Hattinger gene pool got so diluted, but your waddling imbecile of a brother hasn’t the brains of a dodo.’

  ‘Reporters will be all over the story before we get—’

  ‘Go. Help him prepare a statement. Your jeep’s in the garage. Take the replacement car. I’ve a meeting here with our solicitors this evening.’ Styne’s attention sharpened when a TV camera zoomed in on two women.

  ‘This is Sharona Waters, the person who detected the forgery,’ Dorothy Ridgeway gushed.

  Sharona Waters? Fundraiser Ball. Last Saturday night she said …

  ‘Without Sharona, those scammers would’ve duped and cheated me out of my most prized possession,’ Dorothy continued. ‘God knows how often they’ve swindled other defenceless senior citizens. Sharona’s a fantastic—’

  … she said “unless it’s an inside job. No quantity of high-tech security can hold out against that.” She’d known in a
dvance. The cunt toyed with me. WITH ME? I’ll swat her. Same as I would a flea.

  Styne stalked across the hallway, rage vibrating from every sinew. ‘There must be a way to turn this disaster into a triumph,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll hire a PR team. Go on a deep-drill, damage limitation exercise.’ He prowled lapping the study in search of solutions.

  Create a crisis management plan, but even that could prove fruitless if … Styne halted, mid-stride. I’ve lost Hattinger’s, but this may be a chance for a fresh start. A new departure.

  He patrolled the room again. ‘I’ll dodge any conjecture associated with the scam. There’ll be no permanent stain on me or my record, once I can answer the question, “How could you allow this to happen under your nose”?’ He considered ways around that query, pacing faster. ‘I’ll get the solicitors to create well-crafted, measured responses. When the hullabaloo blows over, I’ll launch modern showrooms. Styne Art Showrooms.’ He visualised the words in his mind’s eye. SAS. ‘No, too Germanic. Styne Auctioneering and Art Showrooms. That’s better. What font? Something creative, functional, trustworthy. Monotype Corsiva, perhaps.’

  He pictured that.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘My innovative new establishment will emerge, phoenix-like from the rubble. I have the contacts.’

  Survive and thrive.

  ‘No more being answerable to any Hattinger. Ambrose will demonstrate his usual incompetence. The rest of the vultures will squabble over whatever pieces remain. I’ll be the winner. Back in control.’

  I’m entitled.

  Styne inhaled. ‘Devil’s in the details.’ He felt his heart rate slacken off. ‘When you focus on the problem, stumbling blocks turn into stepping stones. I owe you an apology, Miss Waters. You’ve helped me more than you realise, you dark-haired bitch. No, no, please don’t thank me. It’s no trouble. It will be a genuine pleasure to take care of you. To thank you personally. A thrill kill. And then, it’s that northern shrew, Dorothy Ridgeway’s turn. Jana, wherever you are, I’ll find you, but for the moment, you must wait.’ Styne stabbed at the iPhone screen, typed in 118.ie, hit people search, tapped out SHARONA WATERS GANESTOWN, and pressed “find.”