Oona O’Brien was at her desk tapping away on her electric calculator when Father Donal came through the door of the vestry clutching his leather holdall.
“Good mornin’ Father,” she said without looking up or imparting any measure of good cheer. She had expected him an hour ago and had put off having a cup of tea until he arrived, her thirst adding to the irritation she felt about a bank reconciliation that refused to balance.
“Top of the mornin’ Oona. Did you have a pleasant evenin’?”
“Yes Father.”
“I hope you were not workin’ yourself too hard now, with all them boxes.”
“No Father. Would you be havin’ a wee cuppa tea?”
“Aye I will.” She got to her feet and headed into the kitchen. He picked up the Derry Examiner that lay untouched on his desk and glanced at the headlines. Further down the front page, a smaller one caught his eye. Police suspect organised crime motive in journalist murder.
“How did your conference go Father?” he heard his clerk call out from the kitchen amidst the clink of cups and the growing roar of the boiling kettle.
“It was highly satisfactory. I think we have every reason to be optimistic that we can grow our congregation over the next year or so and spread the Gospel far and wide. All the Fathers feel the same and the Bishop singled me out for particular praise, which I have to say, is very gratifyin’ indeed.”
Oona appeared with two steaming mugs and placed one in front of him. “I should think so too Father. There’ll not be many of them that can raise as much money for the Church as you do.”
“Bless you Oona. All that I wish is that the Holy Father is pleased with the work that we continue to do.”
“It’s to be hoped he isn’t expectin’ more donations from the same source now poor Mr Flynn is no longer with us.”
“We would all like to have raised more and we did everythin’ in our power to steer Flynn along the path of righteousness. It takes a great deal of plannin’ and foresight, not to mention good fortune, to be able to attract fundin’ on such a scale, although I can’t help thinkin’ God himself had a hand in it. It’s a shame the devil intervened.” He took a swig of tea and flapped his newspaper open.
“God rest his soul, is what I say.”
“Who?”
“Mr Flynn… and that lady journalist. It’s shockin’ so it is.”
Father Donal nodded sombrely. “It is, it is.”
“That’s two young people we know who came to this church, dead within a few months of each other.”
“Aye. Tragic. God moves in mysterious ways, so he does, but he offers forgiveness to all, no matter what they do in this life. I’ll say a prayer for them both this Sunday.” Oona returned to her seat, her calculator and her ledgers.
“Father? The adoption of baby Cara. Can you remember the name of the family that took her in and how much they paid? I can’t seem to find any record other than their original application. Did they not go through with it?” Father Donal lowered his paper, looking perplexed.
“You’re surely not askin’ me if I remember any of the twenty adoptions that may have happened in the last year? I’m afraid my memory is not what it was. You’ll have to ask Sister Shona. She told me she’s got ten of the poor women with child at the moment and another three joinin’ from outside. I just don’t know what these poor women would do if it wasn’t for The Sisters.”
“I heard poor wee Orla McGrath passed away the other day. She was a troubled soul, so she was.”
“Aye, God rest her soul.”
“She never got over the death of wee Mary Keane. That’s thirty-five years ago. That’s a long time to be mournin’ someone she wasn’t even related to.”
“Aye it is.”
“I mean it’s not as if that Mary was an innocent. She had a touch of the devil inside her. Said all sorts of terrible things so she did.”
“Best not speak ill of the dead Oona.” He sensed his clerk was about to go off on one of her rants. It wasn’t a subject he wanted to dwell upon.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if poor Mr Flynn inherited some of his mother’s traits…”
“Thank you Oona!” She sniffed at the interruption to her flow and grudgingly returned to her ledger.
“Well may God forgive her and God forgive her son too. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
***
He parked the car in West India Quay and they took the short walk to the offices of Reinhardt Baer, situated in a twenty-storey chrome and glass building overlooking North Dock. One of three woman on reception took her name asked if she had an appointment and on hearing she didn’t, asked them to take a seat in the waiting area.
“How come you hired a car in Watford?”
“I was back in Scotland when the Isle of Wight job came up. I didn’t want to drive all the way in my old banger so I got the train down and stopped off at the mail forwarding place to see if there was anythin’ there. Then I decided to drive down to the south coast and take the car over. It seemed like a real escape, bein’ on the ferry. I could have stayed there for weeks.”
“But Uncle Dec was already on your trail.”
“Aye. That was bad luck, so it was.”
“Did you meet anyone interesting there?” He kept his face impassive, as if it were a genuine question seeking a genuine answer. To his surprise, her cheeks reddened and she gave him a sideways look. “What?” he asked innocently.
“I met this tall dark handsome stranger and whacked him over the head with a tennis ball.”
“Do you have a penchant for physical violence?”
“What do you think?”
“I’ve been on the wrong end of a slap or two.”
“You probably deserved it.”
“Without a doubt. But it doesn’t put me off.” He leaned forward. “In fact…”
“Miss McConnell?” A tall thin man of middle age in an exquisitely cut suit had approached them with the stealth of a lion stalking its prey. “I am Werner Schmid, a senior manager here at Reinhardt Baer. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed stiffly and held out a hand. His fingers were long and slender.
“Good mornin’. This is my, er, partner Jack Fleming.” Schmid put his arms behind his back and bowed perfunctorily in Jack’s direction.
“Of course,” he said, courteous but dismissive. “Do you have your security key?” She nodded and fumbled inside her blouse but he held up a hand to stop her. “That will not be necessary for now, but will be required in due course. If you would like to come this way, I shall take you to the vaults.” They both stood and Jack attempted to follow when Schmid stopped and turned. “I’m sorry but Mr Fleming will be required to wait here. Only one person is permitted in the vault at any time.” Jack shrugged and waved her away.
“I’ll be right here.”
She followed Schmid to an electronic barrier where he swiped an ID card and let himself through before pointing to a visitor gate to the left where he did the same for her.
“This way please.” At the end of a marble hall, they waited in front of a bank of elevators and after a few seconds one of them pinged and the doors slid open. “Please?” He stood aside to allow her into the empty car then followed, swiped his pass and pressed a button marked ‘V’. “Have you travelled far Miss McConnell?” he asked as she felt the car descend rapidly.
“From Scotland,” was all she could think of saying. She felt her heart beating and a pulse throbbing in her temple, the Swiss banker’s imperiousness doing little to quell her apprehension. The doors opened again within ten seconds and she stepped into another corridor with a marble floor, granite-clad walls with alcoves containing a variety of sculptures and ceiling cameras at five metre intervals. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked for ID,” she said trotting behind him as he strode ahead.
“It is not necessary. We have face recognition cameras at reception, so we know who you are but also, you will have to pass security.” They arrived at an electronic barrier similar to airport immigration. It was attended by a young woman in a crisp suit while two uniformed guards with truncheons and lapel mics stood by.
“Good morning Miss McConnell,” she said. “May I ask you to place your hand flat on the panel and your feet here on these marks.” She pointed first to a scanning panel and then to two yellow footprints painted on the floor. “Now please look at the screen.” She waited as the barrier lit up like a pinball machine with amber scanning bars. It took fifteen seconds for them to turn green at which point the barrier opened. Schmid was waiting on the other side.
“Please,” he said inviting her to turn left and follow him along another corridor which ended with a stainless-steel door. He flashed his card at the panel, entered a multi-digit number on the keypad and stared into the screen above it. The door clunked and opened automatically with a hum. She entered a room that was bare apart from an oak table in the centre, walls lined with lockers of various sizes and security cameras dotted around the ceiling. She felt intimidated and confused.
“I don’t understand. I’ve never been here before. How do you know who I am?” Schmid gave her a condescending look.
“We have your biometric profile.”
“How?”
“The individual who opened the account has provided it. With your permission I assume?” She tried to think and then the penny dropped. The week before he died, Eamonn insisted on seeing her. He’d taken her picture close-up, as if for a passport, and brought a hand-sized portable scanner. Trust me Caitlín. He’d looked flustered and upset and so was she and she didn’t question. She trusted him. He gave her the key. But Schmid was talking again. “Your security key now please.” He walked her to a locker set at head height. “Please insert your key here,” he said pointing to one of two keyholes “but do not turn until I say.” Then he inserted a key of his own in the other keyhole. “Now please turn clockwise.” The locker door clicked as the locks released. “Now please remove your key.”
She stepped back and he withdrew the entire locker from its recess. He laid it on the oak table which had a black plastic screen rising up on three sides.
“I shall leave you now. Be assured the cameras cannot record the contents of your box if you keep them under this cowl. When you are ready you may press this button and I shall return.” He pointed to a green button set into the table. “May I ask you limit your stay to fifteen minutes?” he said and left through the stainless-steel door.
The room was cool and virtually silent apart from a faint electrical hum, yet she felt sweat on her brow and her hands were clammy. She wiped them on her trousers and lifted the lid of the box. It contained a single yellow padded envelope that was open at one end. She felt inside and pulled out a small leatherbound book like a miniature bible, the front embossed in gold with the name Reinhardt Baer. There was also a Reinhardt Baer security card, an electronic device that looked like a small calculator with a three-inch square panel and a child’s exercise book, dog eared and creased with age, the cover, splashed and stained, bearing the handwritten title ‘The Diary of Mary Keane’. She flicked the pages and saw lines of text, mainly pencil, in neat handwriting. Finally, she withdrew a sealed envelope with her name handwritten on the front. She held it in her hand, turning it over once then twice, uncertain of what to do, then ripped open the envelope and extracted several pages of A4 paper. The hum of the air-conditioning was overwhelmed by the sound of her heart beating in her ears that increased in intensity as she unfolded the first page.
***
Jack had kept himself occupied on his phone, calling Clive Hudson and telling him to accept the offer of £2.8m, then briefing Henry on his own sale while enquiring as to progress on Charlotte and Gavin’s.
“They’re struggling with their mortgage Jack. They just don’t have a reliable enough income. I’ve got another contact at a second-tier finance house but it’s only going to be sixty percent loan to value and it’s expensive. It’ll put them under even more pressure, financially.”
“Okay Henry, thanks, leave it with me. I’ll speak to her and see if we can come up with a solution.” They both knew what that meant; the bank of dad would have to step in or risk upsetting his daughter.
He looked up the RBM Industries website, but it gave little real insight, filled with bland corporate puff about ‘market leaders’, ‘global reach’, ‘product diversity’, ‘commitment to customer satisfaction’ and ‘servicing a wide range of industrial sectors’. There were no mug shots of the people behind the organisation and no indication of their size, scale or location, other than a claim to be ‘strategically placed to provide a logistics platform to several continents’.
He did a search for RBM Industries on the Companies House website which showed its registered office to be a firm of lawyers in Londonderry. Rowan Brendan Maguire and Kathleen Margaret Maguire were listed as director and secretary respectively along with three others, and both Maguires had a string of other appointments in what he presumed were subsidiaries or associated businesses. The Consolidated Accounts and Annual Return were up to date and the latest audited financial statements declared a turnover of sixty million in the previous year, profits of two million and retained earnings of ten. He judged it to be a financially robust organisation, but not one that appeared to live up to the boast on its own website. Crucially, it reported four million in the bank, stocks of three and little debt other than the usual VAT, social security and other taxes. He was by no means an expert on statutory accounts, but if RBM knew it owed twenty million to a subsidiary of the Vatican Bank, then it would surely have shown up on the Balance Sheet. Either Eamonn Flynn was a hoaxer or he had, as claimed, successfully hidden the debt in a maze of offshore subsidiaries that not even the company’s auditors knew of. It was equally clear that, if presented with a demand to repay twenty million, RBM would default.
He looked at his watch. Caitlín had been gone twenty minutes and he was beginning to get concerned. He glanced around the gleaming reception area and watched people coming and going but there was no sign of her. He stood up, considering whether to enquire at the reception desk, when a troubled looking Werner Schmid scuttled towards him. He had lost his imperious manner and his face betrayed a mild state of panic.
“What’s wrong?”
Schmid held up both hands and bowed obsequiously in a way that did little to hide his obvious discomfort. “I’m afraid Miss O’Connell is feeling unwell. She fainted in the vault and now seems very distressed.”
“Where is she?” demanded Jack, brushing past him towards the barriers.
“Mr Fleming, please,” whimpered Schmid, “you are not authorised to enter.”
Jack’s pulse began to race. “Take me to her!” His imagination was out of control as was his temper. He should have been prepared for the unexpected given what he knew of the forces at work. A few people had noticed raised voices and a man in a security uniform was striding towards them.
“Please be calm Mr Fleming. Miss McConnell is being attended to by my personal assistant. I am sure she will be here shortly.”
Jack struggled to maintain his composure. He didn’t trust Schmid or his poncey Swiss Bank and was ready to deck the guard if he laid a hand on him. He clenched his fists and glared at Schmid.
“I want her up here, now!” Schmid nodded vigorously and trotted back through the barrier towards the elevators. The security guard eyed him with unconvincing bravado until Jack glared at him. “Go away!” he shouted, and the guard slowly retreated. He paced the floor, trying to work out what to do next when Schmid appeared again on the other side of the barriers followed by Caitlín, one arm supported by a woman in a tight skirt and stilettos, the other clutching a yellow padded envelope to her chest.
Jack rushed forward and she fell into his arms, sobbing. He kissed her head and held her as her body shook, while Schmid and his PA stood looking distinctly anxious and uncomfortable.
“What happened?” he barked at Schmid who looked helpless and confused.
“Miss McConnell was reading some papers when she collapsed. We saw her on the camera and rushed in to help her. I called Wendy here and she sat with her for a few moments while she recovered. Miss McConnell, would you like us to call a doctor?” Jack raised her head and cleared the matted hair from her face. Her eyes were puffy and red and streaks of mascara stained her cheeks. But worse than that, she looked haunted and broken, a pale shadow of the woman he knew.
“Are you okay?” She gave an almost imperceptible nod and he hugged her again.
“No thanks,” he said to Schmid. “We’ll be leaving now.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” said Schmid, still perturbed. Jack ignored him and ushered her out of the building into the crisp sunny weather.