My assistant poked her head, and then her ample form, around the door, a Danish pastry with a bite taken out of it in her right hand.
‘You’ve been diligent,’ Tina said. ‘In over the weekend and working from home too by the looks of it. I’ve piles of work waiting for me before the day starts. I was mighty impressed for about two minutes until I remembered that the Film Festival is on. You’re obviously only working the weekend so’s you can doss off loads during the week.’
I laughed.
‘It’s kind of to do with the festival,’ I said. ‘But there’s more to it than that. Close the door and sit for five minutes. I’ll give you a quick rundown.’
I walked her through my initial meeting with Sean and told her the results of my weekend researches. At the end of it, Tina said ‘Feckit, Finn, that’s got to be the dodgiest case you’ve ever taken on. Exciting, though. What did Gabriel say about it?’
‘Well I haven’t exactly told him. I half mentioned a new case to him on Saturday but didn’t give him the details.’
‘Hmmm. You have to tell him. The sooner the better. He might say no.’
Tina was right. I had to tell Gabriel about the case. But I hadn’t told her about Deirdre’s connection to me, and I hadn’t figured out yet how I could get away with not telling Gabriel either. Though part of me knew that I should, most of me wanted to stay silent. If he knew anything about the case, the question would be sure to come up: why in the name of God was I taking it on? If I answered truthfully, he’d be bound to say that I was too close, and that my judgement was impaired. More than likely, he’d demand that I hand the file over to a colleague who’d see it immediately for what it was, a doomed pursuit that made sense only to me, and the case would be quietly dropped. No, I couldn’t tell Gabriel.
‘I need to put a few more things in place first. I think it’ll be okay. I won’t be spending office funds. And I’ve done everything so far on my own time. I want to have something concrete before I talk to him. That’s where you come in.’
‘If you’re sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘I need you to open up a file for Sean and Ann Carney, set them up as clients, check what information I need that I haven’t got already. I know I didn’t get their identity docs – they’ll have to bring in that stuff this week. You can prep the client contracts for them, the standard litigation ones, and do up all the Section 68 bumph. And make an appointment with them to come in tomorrow afternoon and tell them what to bring along.’
‘Say 3.30 or 4?’
‘Make it a bit earlier, 2.30 if you can – but 3 p.m. is fine at a push. And I need you to make some calls for me, find a few people, get their contact details.’
‘The boys from the youth jury first, I s’pose, what were their names again?’
I smiled. Tina could read my mind.
‘Yes, smarty pants, Lorcan Lucey, who went to Pres. I reckon we should concentrate on him. It’s hardly worth our while looking for the other boy. There must be hundreds of Patrick McCarthys in Cork, that’s if he still lives here, and thousands around the country. As well, can you see if you can track down Joey O’Connor?’
‘The boyfriend.’
‘Exactly. Used to go to St Finbarr’s School, now possibly working in the family motor business, somewhere on the Kinsale Road.’
‘What about the two teachers?’ Tina asked.
‘Aifric and Mr O’Donnell? Yeah, I’m wondering how best to get to them. I’m thinking that the best thing to do is for me to make an appointment to see the school principal first. Might be hard to get talking to them otherwise – I presume they’re teaching classes most of the time. And I’ll drop the photos into Camera World to get copied and enlarged on the way to court. Oh and where could I buy a lockable box, do you know?’
‘Ronnie Moore’s?’
‘Marlboro Street. On my way, sure, so I can do that too,’ I said.
I locked the exhibits into my office desk drawer and grabbed my bag, double-checking that my files were in it, along with a pen, a barrister’s notebook and the photos for copying.
‘I’m gone. Talk later,’ I said. ‘Thanks Tina.’
It was an unwritten rule that the really easy cases, the ones that looked most settleable, were the ones that ended up causing the trouble. And often the troublesome cases ended up being easy. But not always. And if the tough cases went wrong, they were the worst of all. So, over the years, I had learnt to expect the unexpected, to suck up whatever happened and move on, with the minimum of fuss and as few backward glances as I could manage. Which didn’t mean that I was relaxed, or anything like it. My default setting for court was anxiety, varying from low to high, and averaging out usually, like today, somewhere in the middle. And if I wasn’t worried, then I’d worry for sure, about losing my edge or what I wasn’t seeing. An older colleague had told me when I was starting out that being a solicitor was like being at war: days and weeks of dullness interspersed with moments of terror. He had had it right, I reckoned but, however I scanned them, today’s cases were routine, and I was glad. Immersing myself in other people’s problems had never been a more welcome prospect.
I dropped the photographs into Camera World and arrived outside the Family Court a little before ten for the 10.30 list. I had a few minutes to spare so I rang the Opera House and asked to speak to Marie Wade. But Marie had a day off so the search for the former festival education officer Daniel O’Brien would have to wait.
Inside the courthouse, I embarked on a hunt for my clients and the opposing solicitors. It was a small place but with two waiting rooms, a couple of possible hallway loitering zones and an exterior smoking area, it was often hard to find who you were looking for at the exact moment you needed to find them.
It was nearly a quarter past ten, with the callover of the judge’s list approaching at half past. I had managed to meet and have a preliminary word with both opposing solicitors, yet my clients still hadn’t appeared. I hung by the door and started to fret, imagining that I had given the clients the wrong court date by mistake. But, after another while, they had arrived, one of them complaining about parking problems, the other stinking of the previous night’s alcohol and saying little apart from a mumbled ‘Sorry about that, Finn’.
I dived into the morning’s work.
By twenty to one, I was done. I took the opportunity, in the quiet of the solicitors’ room, to google Deirdre’s old school. I rang the phone number on the St Finbarr’s University School website, which was light on other details, teachers’ names or the hours of the school day. I gave my name and profession but no other details to the secretary who answered.
I was put straight through to the head teacher. Sometimes ‘solicitor’ has a magical effect. Schools are universally obsessed by insurance costs and claims and, once he’d heard that I wasn’t planning on suing him and that his premium was safe, the principal, Eoghan MacGiolla, agreed to see me that very afternoon. He also said that he would ask Miss Sheehan and Mr O’Donnell to make themselves available. I told MacGiolla that I would be at the school by 3 p.m. at the latest.
As I crossed City Hall Bridge on to the South Mall, I rang Tina and arranged to meet her for lunch. Then I turned right into Marlboro Street and bought the cash box.
Next, I collected the photographs from Camera World. The enlargement all but confirmed that the name badge was the same as the one I’d found at the Carney house.
Now that I had copies of the photographs, I could return the originals to the Film Festival, somehow, preferably without attracting attention. Or was it best to walk in brazenly and say that I’d borrowed them as if it was no big deal? I’d decide later.
I looked again at Daniel O’Brien, the education officer, in the enlarged picture. Jessica had said that he was a nice man. He looked it. He had a round face, a big smile, ill-advised Harry Potter glasses and a small potbelly, the expansion of which seemed inevitable. He’d be mid-thirties by now, and his hair looked light brown or dark blond, though it was hard to tell from the photo. The fact that I hadn’t been able to find him was niggling me, and I’d talk to Marie Wade when I got a chance, but I wouldn’t spend much time on him.
From the Grand Parade, I turned down Tobin Street, more of a lane than a street, and passed the Triskel Arts Centre. Gulpd Cafe, my destination, was on the left. Opposite was the Hubert Bookbindery on the ground floor of Hatfield House. The building was named for Hurd Hatfield, an American actor who had lived in the County Cork countryside in his latter years. Hatfield, a local celebrity and a regular attender at the Film Festival, though I had never met him, had played the narcissistic deceiver Dorian Gray in the 1945 movie of the book. Which made me think about Jeremy Gill again.
I needed lunch.
Spotting Tina at a table in the corner, I waved. Then, I ordered my usual, a chicken baguette, at the counter and went to join her.
‘So, tell me, what have you got?’ I said.
‘General, or new case?’ Tina asked.
‘New case,’ I said. ‘Unless there’s anything major I need to know about?’
‘Naw, all’s grand,’ Tina said. ‘But on the new case, first of all, and easiest to find, Joey O’Connor is definitely working at the family car sales business. I have a printout of the address and the location for you back at the office. I talked to him on the phone and he said he’d be there till six this evening if you want to call out. He assumed you’d be going to see him about buying a new car, and I didn’t bother correcting him.’
‘Good woman. Anything else? The jury boys?’
‘Not so good. Neither school would give out their addresses without authorisation. I did a general search. There are about ten million Patrick McCarthys, as you can imagine. But I was able to find Lorcan Lucey, or somebody I think is the same guy. He’s working up in UCC in the philosophy department as a lecturer or tutor or something. He’s on their web page anyway. Here’s a printout: same guy, right?’
‘Looks it. Okay, let’s abandon Patrick and concentrate on Lorcan. By the way, I realised earlier that I should’ve asked you to do up written authorities for the Carneys for Deirdre’s education and medical records. Prepare drafts, would you, please, Tina, and we can refine them before tomorrow afternoon. They are coming in, aren’t they?’
‘Yep, half two, it’s in your diary,’ Tina said.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Now please eat your lunch.’
We walked back to the office together. Up in my room, I gave Tina a few more files to work on and threw myself into my chair.
‘You’ve done loads, Tina,’ I said. ‘I’ll race through my messages and do a couple of attendance notes on court this morning. But then I’ll scoot off, see if I can get anywhere with the school and Joey O’Connor later this evening. If you’ve time, you might see if you can get Lorcan Lucey’s work number and text it to me.’
‘Got it already, needless to say, being the wonderful secretary that I am.’
‘You are the best, and so modest too,’ I said.
‘Modest to a fault, girl,’ Tina said.
She was laughing as she left the room.
I ran through my calls list to see if there were any I couldn’t ignore. And I decided that, for the moment, the handwritten notes I’d made of this morning’s cases would suffice – the orders would be in from the court office in a day or two, anyway. The only work I wanted to do for the rest of the afternoon was on the Carney case, and that meant neglecting other essentials. But Jeremy Gill was going to be in Cork tomorrow and I needed to have as much knowledge as I could before he arrived. I tried calling Lorcan Lucey, got voicemail, and left a ‘Finn Fitzpatrick, Solicitor’ message and my mobile number, hoping it would pique his interest enough for him to call me back.
‘Back to school time,’ I said aloud.
Almost instantaneously, I was out of my chair, taking the stairs two at a time and on MacSwiney Street, walking at speed in the direction of Deirdre’s old school. I’d think about what I was going to say when I got there along the way.
But five minutes later, I was back in the office. I had forgotten to put the exhibits in my newly purchased lockable box. And I’d forgotten, too, about returning the photos to the Film Festival. No matter, I thought. The photos could wait. I put them, and the exhibits, into the box, locked it, and locked everything into the desk. It wasn’t anything to worry about, I told myself. The photos weren’t of interest to anyone except me.
Most likely, nobody had even noticed they were gone.