To his relief, Gerry Bruce saw that he would keep his job, at least for the time being. Malone needed him.
Personal publicity could not be avoided on this occasion and even Malone did not think it was a good idea to try.
Bruce flew to Belfast with some of his people, took over the top floor of the city centre building, and got down to work. By the time the markets opened on Monday morning, Malone had been made available for a whole series of interviews and photo-opportunities. No one got very long: just enough time for him to portray himself as both the grieving father and the dedicated business tycoon.
For the moment, he said, to provide stability, he would assume personal responsibility for the overall management of Malone Group as well as Malone Global.
‘The death of my only son is a great loss and a great shock,’ he told television viewers, who believed they were seeing for the first time the private face of this enigmatic man. ‘But I have responsibilities which cannot be neglected.’
His voice was low and even, his emotions in check.
Bruce looked on. ‘Great stuff,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Great fucking stuff.’
The market was reassured and Malone shares rose by several points.
And as they did, Malone’s sorrow began to turn to anger.
A week to the day, he buried his son in great privacy.
There had once been a church on Malone’s Island, which is what the people living along that stretch of the Fermanagh lough shore had come to call it. All that was left of the church itself were a few stones where once the walls had been and a stone floor covered with lichen and briars. But there was a tiny graveyard alongside. In it there were a dozen headstones, their faces worn almost smooth, the names of the dead erased by the passing of the centuries. All around, sweet honeysuckle threaded its way through a sturdy hawthorn hedge and foxgloves, bowed by the wind, stood like frail holy men in purple hoods.
Nearby, sheltered by pine trees, stood Malone’s house, wood-framed, triangular under a huge roof that sloped down either side, with a balcony and big windows that faced out towards the lough.
Christopher’s mother, Malone’s first wife, would have objected to the remoteness and inaccessibility of such a grave site, but she had died ten years ago and so there was no one to argue with his decision. Certainly not BB, who was the only other mourner.
As for Christopher’s ex-wife – or was she some kind of a widow now? – living on her lucrative divorce settlement in the Cayman Islands, with their son in a private school in England, to no one’s surprise, there had been no communication from her at all.
At least, BB thought, she had the decency not to pretend to care. Although the boy should have been here. That wasn’t right.
In spite of the fact that it was July, the day was cold and bleak. Rain was not far off. It was in the fullness of the clouds and the grey light.
The rector of a mainland parish had agreed to carry out the burial ceremony. Looking bewildered and frozen, he sat with Malone, the coffin and BB as they made the mile-long journey in the powerful motor launch which Malone kept in a boat-house on the island.
Billy Lowry, the caretaker who travelled across three times a week, took the wheel. A granite-faced man who wore a cap permanently, today he had found a suit from somewhere. The boat was capable of speed but in deference to their mission and the weather Billy kept the throttle low. Even so, the rector felt his stomach rebel against every movement of the choppy waters.
When they reached the island, they were met by Billy’s cousin, a forestry worker who sometimes gave a hand with the more physical chores. He was a short man, chest strong beneath a jacket which would not button across it. Billy threw him the line and in silence he tied the boat up and helped its passengers off.
They had already dug the grave. Now they were on hand for the rest.
They went to the house first to gather themselves and then, under darkening skies, the little group stood silent and still as the rector intoned the funeral rites, trying to make his voice heard above the insistent wind. It whipped the thin strands of his hair into his eyes and caught his surplice like a sail.
Malone stood at the edge of the grave, BB a few feet behind him.
In the house, on a table in the study, she had left a pile of letters of condolence, faxes, telemessages, that he had yet to read. There was one from the Chancellor of the Exchequer, another from the Irish Prime Minister and one from the deputy Canadian Premier. Several American senators and congressmen had also written and there were messages from the heads of corporations all over the world.
They would wait. For now, Malone was alone with his anguish, staring at the damp earth in which his son would rest.
The clergyman finished, closed his prayer book and gave the benediction.
In the name of the Father and of the Son . . .
Malone felt the words stabbing at him.
Afterwards, he did not invite anyone to remain behind for a drink, not even BB. He wanted to be by himself. He would stay on the island tonight. He had arranged for a helicopter to come tomorrow and take him back to Belfast where he would spend a couple of days sorting out Malone Group.
And then there would be an inquest and he would have to give evidence and talk about his son’s disturbed state.
They walked back towards the boat as the rain began. Thin rain, like mist. It fell with a kind of hiss. On the mainland shore, Damian, the driver, waited for BB and turned the big BMW’s wipers on.
‘People have been asking me if there’s going to be a memorial service,’ she said.
Malone thought for a second, then decided. ‘No. I’m having none of that. It wouldn’t be about Christopher at all. They’re only talking about a service because they want an opportunity to fawn over me with their phony condolences.’
‘Whatever you think,’ BB said. She opened her handbag. ‘Listen, Brian, there’s one thing.’ She took out a small padded envelope and handed it to him. ‘I didn’t find it until yesterday and I decided not to give it to you until all this was over.’
The little package was thickly sealed with tape. It contained something that was thin, flat and hard.
‘It was in his safe. That day, when he was going to play golf, he came in. Remember I told you? He must have left it then. He knew that if anyone found it, it would be me.’
Malone looked at the envelope. On the front, in Christopher’s handwriting, it said: For Sir Brian Malone ONLY.
There was a date in the top left hand corner. It was not the date of the day the package had been left – it was the date of the day his son had died.