The Trust

by Ronald H. Balson

  “I never cared for his boss, you know,” Charles said. “Penters was always trying to get his hands in my pockets. You have to be wary of these fellows who offer to make you a fortune overnight.”

  “Not like a solid linen business handed down from your father, right?” I said.

  Charles wasn’t sure how to take that and he looked at me sharply, but then smiled. “Exactly,” he said. If Charles were the dark knight, this was going to be an interesting evening. Either he knew I was playing him or he felt confident he could fool me. Or perhaps he just took delight in the bandy.

  “I say, your wife seems to be on the mend,” he said, looking at Catherine. I didn’t like his eyes on my wife. “Dreadful incident at your home,” he said. “One always expects there to be a sense of security in one’s abode, don’t you agree?”

  “You’re dead-on there, Charles. The asshole responsible for the fire better pray that the police catch him before I do.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Do him in, would you, Liam?”

  “Oh yes. In the most barbarous way possible.”

  Charles laughed quite loudly. “Barbarous. How monstrous of you.”

  Deirdre ended the conversation by summoning all of us to the table.

  * * *

  DEIRDRE AND CATHERINE HAD outdone themselves. My goodness, how this dinner brought back memories. Leek soup for a starter, followed by a cucumber, squash and kale salad, and then the pièce de résistance: poached salmon sitting atop Irish boxty under a covering of crème fraîche. I hadn’t had Irish boxty, those Irish potato pancakes that Annie used to call “fat latkes,” since I was here sixteen years ago. Of course, Irish soda bread, made with sour cream and raisins, complemented the main course.

  Catherine laid the plates on the table beaming with pride. “Deirdre taught me an Irish poem,” she said. “Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan, if you can’t make boxty, you’ll never get a man.”

  “Well, your worries are over,” I said.

  Dinner conversation was light, and for the moment the fears and anxiety of the past few weeks were set aside. Old memories were in play and we were careful to reminisce about joyous times only, though tears would form when stories recalled Eamon or Fergus. Out of respect, Riley’s circumstances didn’t come up. Wine was flowing, people seemed more at ease, so I thought I’d try my hand at probing Charles.

  “So tell us, Charles, with a degree from Princeton, you must have been wined and dined by a lot of American companies who wanted to hire a suave British graduate. Did you go through all those on-campus interviews?”

  I got that wide Colgate smile and he said, “You sure seem interested in my younger life, Liam. Are you writing a book?”

  “I’m just curious,” I said. “And a little fascinated. You’ve done so well.”

  “Curiosity? Well, you know what they say about that and the cat?”

  “No, Charles, what do they say about the cat?”

  He made a pistol with his forefinger and thumb. “Bang,” he said, and laughed.

  I laughed as well and turned to Catherine. “I’ve got to have some pictures to remember this fabulous dinner.” I took out my cell phone and handed it to her. “Would you snap a few pictures, please?”

  Catherine made little groupings and took pictures of everyone. I left the table for a minute, ran back to my bedroom and retrieved the golf cap that Charles had given to me. I told Catherine to take a picture of Charles and me, the two golf buddies. Charles was happy to oblige.

  I took my hat off. “Charles, you should be the one wearing the Dunluce Links golf cap. I mean that is so you.” He hesitated, knowing I had something up my sleeve, but not to be outdone or the least bit intimidated, he nodded and put it on. Catherine snapped the picture.

  Deirdre brought out a bottle of port and a strawberry whipped-cream cake, which everyone agreed was impossible to eat after such a big meal, but which mysteriously disappeared by the end of the evening. Another Aunt Deirdre masterpiece. I do love that woman.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING I called McLaughlin to ask if he wanted to accompany me to Walker’s apartment. I was anxious to confront Walker with the photo I’d taken of Charles. As they say in the CIA, I had high confidence that Walker would ID Charles as the person who’d bought the photographs.

  “I’m tied up in meetings this morning, Liam. I’ll send Dooley with you,” McLaughlin said.

  “I don’t think Walker will talk to me if Megan is present. He knows I’m not a cop so maybe he’ll open up to me if I’m alone. And if Walker’s not at home, he’s probably gone to the pub. Megan would be too conspicuous in that crowd.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend you go poking around in those loyalist pubs, Liam. They’re not exactly friendly to outsiders.”

  “I’m not worried. I can take care of myself.”

  “Well, don’t take a gun in there. Too many things can go wrong and I’m the one who gave you the gun, okay? No guns.”

  “Okay, but I’m hoping to catch Walker at home.”

  Walker had given his address as 14 Bootle Street, a block and a half from Shankill Road in an area of tightly compacted, redbrick row houses. No army ever squeezed more barracks into a one-block area than were packed into Walker’s block in the Lower Shankill. There were forty-two town houses—what locals called the “two up, two downs”—in the one square block bordered by Bootle, Tennent, Eccles and Orkney Streets. Number fourteen was in the middle of the block. The curtain in the front bay window was pulled back and I could see a sparsely furnished living room: chairs and a sofa with cloth slipcovers and a small tube TV on a metal stand. I knocked on the door.

  An elderly woman in a white robe and plush slippers, her hair in pink rollers, opened the door a crack and asked me what I wanted. “I was hoping Tom Walker was at home,” I said. She shook her head. “You’ll find him at Willy’s. He worked yesterday and he never works two days in a row. When you see him, tell him he needs to pay this week’s rent before his wages are tossed on the bar and spent on drink.”

  I thanked her kindly and headed off for Willy’s. It was just this side of noon and the bar was busy. Apparently, there were a lot of men who had also worked yesterday. Walker was standing at the end of the bar, just where McLaughlin and I had encountered him. He saw me and turned to duck out, but the back door was bolted and he really didn’t have anywhere to go.

  “Why don’t you leave me alone?” he said. “I already told you everything I know. I sold the pictures to some fancy chap who came looking for me at my apartment. Now leave me be, I ain’t saying’ nothing more. I don’t have to.”

  I signaled to the bartender. “One for me and one for my friend here.” The bartender nodded.

  “Well, then, as long as you’re buying, friend, add a shot of Bushmills,” Walker said to the bartender with a smile. He nodded, drew the beers, poured the shots and set them on the bar for us.

  “Tom, I want to ask you about the guy who bought the pictures.”

  He twisted his mouth in annoyance. “I told you everything I could remember.”

  “Well, now you say he’s a fancy chap. Why is that?”

  “He took the pictures and handed me three hundred quid like it was pocket change. I guess that qualifies, don’t it?”

  “Sure does.”

  “Anything else fancy about him?”

  “Nah.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and showed him Charles’s picture, the one in the golf hat.

  “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “Is that the fancy chap?”

  He took the phone and held it close, squinting and scrunching his face, and moving the phone back and forth, not more than inches from his eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose it could be.”

  “Do you wear glasses, Tom?”

  “When they ain’t broken. Social services will only give me one stinkin’ pair a year. That’s the piss-poor care we get living here in Belfast.”

  “When’s the last time you had yo
ur glasses?”

  “Can’t remember. April, I think. Maybe March. A long time ago. Way before I sold the pictures.”

  “Look closely. The guy in the photo, does that look like the man who bought the pictures from you?”

  He tried to focus, blinked several times, shrugged and then looked away. “Yeah, it could be. Sure, why not?”

  That was totally unconvincing. “What do you remember about the man’s hair?”

  “Told you, I couldn’t see his hair. It was under his cap.”

  “Did he have a car?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “Dunno.”

  That’s about as much as I could get, and it wasn’t going to improve with any more alcohol. “All right, thanks for your help,” I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket.

  “You know, I might be real sure with another shot of Bushmills.”

  I smiled and nodded to the bartender. I might as well treat him to an extra drink. I think he would have given me the information if he could. “Give him another,” I said, laying a couple of bills on the bar, and I turned to leave. As I approached the door, two hefty men stood in my way. The one on the right had a white T-shirt rolled up at the sleeves, baring his ample biceps. The one on the left was more bony and covered in tattoos.

  “Excuse me, gents,” I said.

  “What do you think you’re doing in here?” said the muscle man on the right with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Nothing. Just having a conversation. Excuse me, please.”

  “Excuse me please,” he mocked. “Listen up, buddy, this is an Ulster bar. You don’t barge in here bothering one of my friends.”

  “Maybe not. I just bought him a couple of drinks and he drank them, so I don’t think he feels bothered. Now get out of my way.”

  He took a swing at me. I ducked and hit him flush with a solid right. He stumbled backward into the door, straightened up, wiped the blood off his face, smiled and bull-rushed me. Now the bar was coming alive and I was in trouble. Someone hit me from the side and I fell into the bar, smacking my head against the wood. In a moment I was down on the floor and there were kicks to my rib cage and blows to my back. I scrambled to my feet, fought through a couple of swinging drunks, grabbed the tattooed man, spun him around and put him in a power half nelson. “Take one more step and I’ll break this man’s neck,” I said.

  “Back off,” the first man said to the pack of bar-wolves who had encircled me. “I don’t know who the foock you are, but you got no business in this bar. Let Jerry loose and we’ll let you go, but we don’t want you coming around here anymore. Understand? You don’t be coming in here and you don’t be hassling with old Tommy.”

  I was taking a chance letting him go, but it wasn’t going to get any better. I backed up to the door, released the tattooed man, pushed him forward, and quickly left the bar, lucky to leave with only bruises as souvenirs of my unproductive afternoon at Willy’s.

  * * *

  I PHONED MCLAUGHLIN ON my way back to Antrim. “Next time you give me advice, would you also tell me to take it? I had a very unpleasant visit to Willy’s Pub this afternoon.”

  “Any broken bones?”

  “No. Not mine anyway. Before all hell broke loose, I met with Walker at the bar, bought him a drink and showed him the cell phone photo of Charles Dalton in his golf hat.”

  “And?”

  “Walker’s useless. He can’t see his hand in front of his face. Maybe if he saw Charles in person he could ID him, but I doubt it.”

  “I figured Walker would tell you anything you wanted to hear to get you to buy him a drink. He’s full of crap.”

  “I doubt he paid much attention to the guy who gave him the money, even if he could see him clearly. I’m sure his focus was on the bills and not the guy.”

  “So now what?”

  “I still think we need to keep an eye on Dalton. There’s something there, I know it.”

  “Hmm. Do you suppose that fits into my theory of relativity? He’s a Taggart boyfriend. Maybe he doesn’t like his girlfriend’s family. Didn’t you say that he was barred from Fergus Taggart’s house?”

  “I did and maybe that’s not a bad starting point, Farrell. Maybe a feud between Dalton and Fergus? It seems as though nobody likes him but Janie. Feuds seem to get out of control in this part of the world. Still, that would hardly be motive enough for a series of murders, would it? Why would Dalton give a damn what Fergus thought of him? Even if Fergus despised him, it didn’t seem to affect his relationship with Janie. And I don’t think he gives a damn about Fergus’s estate. He surely doesn’t need the money.”

  “Have you counted his money?”

  “Of course not, but he lives very well. Fancy car, fancy clothes, fancy country club and he’s got a booming business. Didn’t you send Megan out there? What did Megan see when she went to Dalton’s plant?”

  “Not much; she didn’t get in. A security guard met her at the gate. Big guy in a uniform. She didn’t have a warrant and he wouldn’t let her in.”

  “What could be so damn secret about a linen factory?”

  “Good question. It’s not even a factory. It’s a distribution center. From what I understand he gets his linen products from local suppliers and ships them to the continent.”

  “Can you go back out there and get me in?”

  “Not without a warrant and I don’t have probable cause. Why are you so focused on Dalton anyway?”

  “Just a feeling. Do you think he might be connected to Penters? Maybe he has an interest in the Global stock? What are Riley and Penters saying today?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Penters hired Farley, Block and Hopkins as his attorneys. They’ve had him transferred to Belfast lockup and they’re filing a petition to have him released on bond. All he’s charged with at this time is skipping out on a subpoena in a financial investigation. Riley’s a different matter. He’s retained the eminent Mr. Cooney, who has advised him to keep his mouth shut. We’re not learning anything new from either of them.”

  “Farrell, he held an unloaded gun on me, hardly a deadly weapon. It wasn’t really kidnapping, I went there voluntarily. You know I won’t press charges. He should be let out on bond.”

  “You might have gone voluntarily, but you weren’t free to leave. That’s kidnapping. He did commit assault, whether there were bullets in the gun or not. Whether he gets probation is up to the prosecutor and the judge. Bond’s been set, but it’s high and Riley has no way of making it. Everything he’s got is leveraged. I’m afraid he’s here for a while.”

  “Well, keep an eye on him, will you? He’s really in a bad way. Put him on suicide watch.”

  “I’ll let the warden know.”

  * * *

  I ARRIVED BACK AT Fortress Deirdre and made my way to the kitchen. Where else? The baby was in a high chair with a tray of Cheerios and Catherine was receiving instruction in the fine art of baking Irish soda bread. The aroma of warm soda bread was intoxicating. I think a person could gain weight on the smells alone. It would be disrespectful not to devour a manly portion of freshly baked bread and I didn’t intend to disrespect my wife and aunt. I bent over to grab a handful of that bread right out of the oven when Catherine slapped my hand.

  Then she looked up and eyed my bruised and battered self, my dirty, torn and blood-stained clothes, and she said, “Jesus, look at you. What the hell happened to you this morning?” She grabbed a wet washcloth. “Deirdre, I’m going to need a first-aid kit.”

  “I ran into some contrary folks,” I said, and winced as she pressed the cloth to a bruise, “but can’t I get a piece of bread first?”

  Catherine knew I suspected Charles, and she knew that I was taking Charles’s photo into Belfast for a possible identification, but I hadn’t disclosed my suspicions to Deirdre or anyone else in the family. Like my uncle, I didn’t want to wrongfully defame an innocent person. Charles had had a hard enough time ingratiating himself with this family without somebody implying that he wa
s a serial killer. I held my finger to my lips and tilted my head toward the doorway.

  “Okay,” she said. “Why don’t we get you upstairs into the bathroom to clean you up?” Deirdre said she would watch Ben and the two of us walked up the stairs to some privacy.

  “Walker,” I said, “he’s drunk and blind. I thought maybe there was a moment of recognition but as an eyewitness he’s useless. There must be some other way to investigate Dalton. I don’t know why, but I’d bet my ass he’s involved.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. I have the same feeling about him that you do, and I can’t tell you why. What is it about him that makes you think he’s involved?”

  I shook my head. “I wish I could pinpoint it. I don’t have a solid theory, just a feeling, like you. It can’t be about the money, he’s a high roller. I don’t believe it has anything to do with my uncle’s property or even Riley’s Global stock. McLaughlin brought up the concept of a feud with Uncle Fergus and I know he and Fergus didn’t get along, but nobody’s crazy enough to start killing people because he’s been banned from Sunday dinner.”

  “You’ve just given me a lot of reasons why he’s not involved. What makes you think he is?”

  “My gut. He’s a phony. He flaunts his riches. A guy like that wants everybody to know he’s got money, as though money establishes character. And he abuses Janie, which is enough to put him at the top of my enemies list. I asked Megan to look into Dalton, find out whatever she could about him, and she told me he doesn’t exist. There’s no record of Charles Dalton in Northern Ireland before he suddenly shows up with a Princeton degree. No record of him at all, Cat. How can that be?”

  “What do you mean he doesn’t exist? He has a Princeton degree.”

  “And the diploma’s genuine, but with his application to Princeton, he submitted a transcript from St. Patrick High School. St. Patrick has no student records for Charles Dalton. He never went there. He’s an athlete, he plays semi-pro Gaelic football for the Belfast club and yet there are no records of him playing sports or anything else at St. Patrick. No records of his attending classes. Don’t you think that’s strange?”