The Trust

by Ronald H. Balson

  “Are you making those phone calls, Riley? Are you the one calling my house?”

  He shook his head. “No, but someone is. If I were you, I’d go home.”

  “Look, the conditions aren’t satisfied. We don’t have proof that Walker is responsible. That’s only a theory. And he hasn’t been apprehended or even located. And to be honest, we don’t know if Thomas Walker is even alive. You heard the judge. She said there was nothing wrong with the way the trust was written. I have my instructions and I have to follow them. Those were your father’s wishes and I have a judge looking over my shoulder.”

  Riley snatched up the paper from the table. “You’re shitting on your family again, Liam,” he screamed. “Conor is right about you! And he’s right about what we have to do. We’re going to get the judge to declare the trust condition satisfied and kick you the hell out of Northern Ireland.”

  He slammed the door hard when he left, so hard that the patrolman grabbed him by the arm and brought him back into the house.

  “Has he caused you any trouble?” the patrolman asked Deirdre and me.

  “No,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  When Riley left, I returned to the kitchen. There were tears in Deirdre’s eyes. “Just like before,” she said.

  “Before what?”

  “Riley and Fergus had fierce arguments.”

  “When, Aunt Deirdre? When did they argue?”

  “Well, they argued a lot in the last few years, but just recently they’ve been arguing over that damn stock. I told Fergus to just give him the stock, it’s not worth it, but Fergus said he had a lot of money tied up in it. Besides, he was worried that Riley was doing something he shouldn’t.”

  “So that’s why Fergus circled the newspaper blurb on Global. Did Fergus fear for his life because of that stock?”

  Deirdre shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did someone besides Riley threaten Uncle Fergus about that stock?”

  Again she shrugged.

  I showed her the picture of the guns again. She squinted, held the picture close to her eyes and then shook her head. “What am I supposed to see here?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you might know. Did Fergus ever say anything about shipments of guns?”

  “No. These look like machine guns. Fergus never had a gun like that. Not that I know of. I don’t think that was a box of guns that Fergus owned.”

  I nodded. “They are assault rifles. I’m not saying he owned them, but this picture was in the folder with the newspaper clippings.”

  “I have no idea where that picture came from, or what it is.”

  “The last article, Aunt Deirdre, the one about the man killed in prison in 2008, does that bring anything to mind?”

  She read the article and placed it back down. “I’m sorry, I have no idea why he would have saved that article. Some IRA prisoner killed in jail by unionists? There must have been a thousand of those murders. But in April 2008 there was nothing in particular going on in our lives.”

  She poured another cup of tea for me and said, “I saw you talking to Annie at the funeral.”

  I nodded. I wished she wouldn’t have brought that up.

  “You know, she never married,” she said.

  I smiled and took out my cell phone. “Aunt Deirdre, I want to show you something.” I clicked on my photos. “This is my wife, Catherine, and my son, Ben. I don’t want to think about Annie anymore. It was nice to see her yesterday but that book is closed.”

  “You’re taking it the wrong way,” she said. “I know you’ve moved on. I only bring it up because over the years Fergus and I have stayed close to Annie. You know, Annie always felt a bond with Fergus and even after the breakup, she came around quite often. She spent many an evening crying on your uncle’s shoulders.”

  “I did not know that.”

  “She made Fergus promise not to tell you.”

  “It took me a while but I got over her, I moved on. Now I’m happy and fulfilled. If Annie’s not, I’m sorry for her, but that was a decision she made a long time ago and she needs to move on as well.”

  “That’s not why I brought it up. No one wants to plan a pity party for Annie, least of all Annie. I brought it up because she and Fergus spent a lot of time talking about personal matters. There were times when I thought Fergus was more open with Annie than he was with me. You’re asking me whether I had any hint of what was going on in Fergus’s life over the last few months. I’ve told you what I know. I’m only suggesting that Annie may know a lot more than I do.”

  I saw where this was heading and I didn’t like it. “I suppose you think I should call up Annie and find out what she knows?”

  “No, I think you should go see Annie and find out what she knows.”

  “That would not be easy for me. Why don’t you talk to her for me?”

  “It’s not my place. If Fergus told her things he didn’t want me to know, then I don’t think it’s fair to use me as a go-between. Besides, she probably won’t open up to me.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Just as a final word, Liam, we came to know Annie as a very good and kind person, and I feel bad that you carry such hard feelings. The breakup wasn’t really her fault. It was her father…”

  “Aunt Deirdre, I don’t carry hard feelings. In truth, I haven’t thought about Annie at all in years. And I know all about her father. So let’s close the subject. Thanks for the breakfast.”

  I gave her a kiss, nodded to the patrolman on my way out and got into my car for the drive back to Antrim.

  * * *

  MY PEACEFUL RIDE THROUGH the countryside was interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but the caller ID said it was Janie.

  “Hi, Janie. Everything okay? Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Charles and I would like to take you to dinner tonight. Are you busy?”

  Charles? The elusive Charles, the man who doesn’t exist, who is always out of the country or off on business and unable to attend funerals, but he wants to make time to take me to dinner? It would surely be a chance to fill in some blanks. How could I turn that down?

  “I’d love to,” I said. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “Charles said he’d send a car for you. We’ll be eating at Charles’s golf club, Royal Portrush on the Antrim coast. If you’d like to play a quick round, he’ll send the car at two o’clock. Otherwise, if you’re busy this afternoon, the car will be at your hotel at six. Do you play golf?”

  I was an average weekend golfer, and normally I’d say no and save the embarrassment, but I certainly couldn’t turn down an afternoon probing into the life of the man who doesn’t exist.

  “I’d love to play a round. Tell Charles I’ll need shoes and clubs.”

  “That’ll be no problem. Be ready at two.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  A BLACK MERCEDES S550 was waiting at the curb when I walked out of the hotel. A large, uniformed driver stood next to the open passenger door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Taggart,” he said stiffly. “Mr. Dalton sends his greetings.” He gestured to the center console. “For your indulgence on the journey, Mr. Dalton has supplied the car with Bushmills single malt and Taittinger on ice. Please help yourself. The ride will take about forty-five minutes. My name is Starkman.” Apt appellation, I thought.

  Starkman handed me a white golf cap and a folded navy blue Peter Millar golf shirt, both bearing the emblem of the Royal Portrush Golf Club, Dunluce Links. “Mr. Dalton’s compliments,” he said. “There is a golf course guide in the seat pocket. Fair warning.” He smiled. “Dunluce is a formidable challenge.”

  The ride north through County Antrim was idyllic. Rolling hills and fields were ripe with the summer’s bounty. True to Starkman’s prediction we reached Royal Portrush at 2:45 p.m. It was nothing short of breathtaking. Built along the Antrim coast, it sat proudly on a rocky bluff high above the North Atlantic Ocean. To the west la
y the resort town of Portstewart, its beaches and the North Channel. To the east were white cliffs, the Dunluce Castle and the Giant’s Causeway. It was hard to imagine a more picturesque layout for a golf course.

  Starkman directed me to the locker room where a chipper attendant welcomed me and ushered me to a walnut locker with my name on it. He brought a pair of golf shoes and filled me in on the celebrity of the club. “We’ve recently been ranked the number one British course by Golf Digest and we’ll be hosting the 2019 Open Championship. All the greats have played here—Watson, Palmer, Nicklaus, Faldo—and it’s one of Rory’s favorites, you know.” I nodded, duly respectful. He handed me two dozen golf balls, compliments of Mr. Dalton, who would meet me in the cocktail lounge when I was settled. I put on my shoes, my new polo shirt and hat, and went to greet the man who did not exist in any database.

  Dalton was sitting in the lounge holding a martini glass, chatting with the bartender. He was wearing white Bermuda shorts with calf-high argyle socks. He stood and greeted me with a firm handshake. “Liam, my good man, welcome to the club. I trust the ride up was not too strenuous.”

  “Not at all, quite comfortable, Charles, thank you for your kind invitation.”

  “My pleasure. Well, let’s not waste any time. Janie won’t like it if we’re late for dinner.” He slapped me on the back and chuckled. “Would you care for a refreshment to take along?”

  I politely declined and he led me out to the first tee where caddies were waiting. The first hole at Royal Portrush was an intimidating four-hundred-yard undulating straightaway with the wind in our face and the ocean on our right.

  “Should we make a game of it?” Dalton said. “A friendly hundred-pound Nassau, just to keep it sporting? I’ll give you three a side.” I knew that he was hustling me, that a hundred-pound Nassau would mean a hundred pounds for the front nine, a hundred pounds for the back nine and a hundred pounds for the round. And it was only a hundred pounds to begin with. Either of us had the right to press the bet at any time, which would have the effect of doubling the stakes. There would be no limit to the amount of times the bets could be pressed. It could get very pricey. Nevertheless, in for a pound, in for a shilling, or something like that. “You’re on,” I said, and Charles smiled. Definitely a smug, gotcha smile.

  Charles hit his drive straight down the middle. Position A. I wound up and sliced mine into the water. “Hard luck, old boy,” he said, with a smile. He took the first hole by three strokes. There went my front-side handicap.

  It didn’t take long for Dalton to bring the conversation around to the investigation. As we approached the third tee, he said, “It’s so unsettling, this Walker business. I’ve hired a full-time security guard for Janie. How is the investigation coming along? Have you zeroed in on his whereabouts?”

  “I believe that question is more aptly directed to Inspector McLaughlin,” I said. “He’s in charge of the investigation. As far as I know, there hasn’t been any progress locating anybody named Walker.”

  “Oh, but I’ve heard rumors, you know, and Janie fills me in. It seems as though this Walker fellow keeps dropping his calling card.”

  “Really? Have you received one?”

  “Me? Heavens, no. Why would I?”

  I shrugged. “You’re dating a Taggart. That might be reason enough for a Walker.” I smiled and hit a high six iron onto the green on the par three third. “But I understand that the PSNI is still looking seriously into several others.” Dalton pulled his five iron into the greenside bunker. I took the hole. He pressed the bet.

  “What others?” he said as we approached the fourth.

  I shrugged. “I really don’t know. My plate is full just managing the trust.”

  “Oh, come on, you must know more than that. Who are they looking at besides Walker?”

  I didn’t care for his fascination with the serial crimes. He should keep his nose out of it. “Anyone and everyone. Maybe even you, Charles.”

  He smiled broadly, but his teeth were clenched. “Not funny, Liam.”

  I burst into a hearty laugh. “Not even a little?”

  We were all square going into the fifth, a signature hole, named White Rocks because the green lay against the seashore. Dalton was getting tense and he hooked his drive. I was sure he was deep in the fescue far off the fairway, but his caddie miraculously found his ball sitting up nicely on the short cut grass. Okay, so he was a cheater. It would be that kind of a day. Nevertheless he launched his shot over the green and onto the beach, and slammed his club hard onto the ground. I took the hole by two strokes. He pressed the bet again, and that wouldn’t be the last time. This man had all the money in the world, but he couldn’t stand to lose. Especially today.

  I knew that if Charles continued to lose, he would become even more tense and would clam up. There would be no friendly conversation and I wouldn’t learn a thing about him. But if he were ahead and thrashing me in the Nassau, he’d bend over backward to be gracious. I planned to miss a few shots and let him pull ahead, and truthfully, it wasn’t all that hard to do. The course was demanding and the more relaxed Charles became, the better he shot. The round was costing me money, but I was hunting for information. I wondered whether I could charge the trust for my gambling losses—are they considered proper trust expenses?

  I asked him about his linen business and he shrugged. “It’s been successful, Liam, a family business for three generations. We’re really the only distributor in Northern Ireland. We ship to nine countries.”

  “I thought Janie said you shipped to a warehouse in Bosnia?”

  He curled his lips. “Janie said that? Well, she really wouldn’t know. We do have a warehouse in Bosnia, and from there the products are sent to other countries.”

  I knew his Princeton application said he played football at St. Patrick, so I said, “I heard that you that you were a football player. Did you play in high school?”

  He shook his head. “I play Gaelic football not American football, but I didn’t pick it up until after I returned from college. At Princeton I played rugby. They didn’t have football.”

  “Princeton has soccer and American football, aren’t they like Gaelic football?”

  “No. They’re not! They didn’t interest me. Gaelic football was really my game. At Princeton, I settled for rugby, which has some similarity to Gaelic football.”

  “So Gaelic football was really your game and you had to settle for rugby?”

  “That’s right. That’s what I said.”

  “But I thought you said you didn’t play Gaelic football until you returned after college?”

  I caught the glimmer of a sneer, but just for a moment. He was very good at controlling his anger. At least with me. “Yes, that’s right. I didn’t play until after college. Now I play for the Belfast Club. When I was young I just fooled around with playground football. Why do you keep asking me about this?”

  “Obviously because Janie says you’re quite an accomplished player. I’m just wondering how come you didn’t play at St. Patrick? I bet you would have been a high school star. Didn’t St. Patrick have a team?”

  “Janie said that, huh? Well, I don’t really recall whether St. Patrick did or didn’t have a team. It was a small school. The bottom line is I didn’t play sports in high school. I was concentrating on my academics. After all, I did get into Princeton. Let’s play golf. You’re up, I believe.”

  A few holes later, I dug again. I don’t know why I was so interested in Dalton, but I was. Maybe because I was protective of Janie, maybe because of his mysterious past, or maybe because there was something so arrogantly phony about him. “How come you went all the way to New Jersey for college when you could have gone to prestigious colleges right here in the UK? I mean Queens College, Trinity, Oxford, Cambridge, and some of them would have had Gaelic football.”

  “Gaelic football again? Football was not my primary focus, it was academics. And why are you so damn interested in my sports activities?”

&
nbsp; “You needn’t take offense, Charles, I’m just trying to get to know you better. You know, casual conversation.”

  “Really? Where did you go to college, Liam, and did you play football?”

  I smiled. “Thank you for asking. I went to the University of Illinois. The Fightin’ Illini, you know? I played football till I blew out my knee. Let me ask you, did you grow up in West Belfast where St. Patrick is?”

  “I grew up in Belfast, okay? But that’s enough about my childhood.”

  I shrugged and started to say, “I’m only trying—” But he quickly interrupted me, putting his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Look. Let me say this to you, Liam. You better be very careful.”

  “Really? How so?”

  He looked at me sternly and then broke into laughter. “Because we’re coming up on the fourteenth hole, the toughest hole on the course. Beware. It’s named Calamity and for good reason.” He smiled and slapped me on the back. Hard. “One of the most famous golf holes in the world. Be very careful.”

  I figured that was enough probing for a little while, so I left any further questions on the table. And he was right about the fourteenth hole. Calamity for sure. It was an expensive hole for me. At the end of the round, I was forty-eight hundred pounds in the red and Charles was deliriously cheerful. With his arm around my shoulder he led me to the bar.

  “Hard luck, old man,” he said as we ordered martinis. “I’m afraid old Dunluce got the better of you today.”

  I nodded. “It was humbling.”

  * * *

  THE PORTRUSH DINING HALL was stunning, with a picturesque overlook of the rugged seashore. Janie had arrived soon after we finished our round. I couldn’t help but notice the large ruby ring on her right hand. She did say that Charles was very good to her. We had a couple of cocktails and took our seats at a table by the windows where we enjoyed a superbly cooked meal of freshly caught salmon and summer vegetables. Charles ordered a bottle of ridiculous white burgundy. Out of the blue, he said, “As I was trying to mention on the course, before you became so interested in my childhood, I think I might be able to help you find Thomas Walker. I have a lot of contacts.”