The Insider

9

‘So what did you find?’ Leon said.

He swallowed and ran a finger along the inside of his collar. He was leaning against the back door of O’Dowd’s pub, hunched over his phone as if he had cramps.

‘Nothing,’ came the reply. ‘I told you it’d be a waste of fuckin’ time.’

Voices roared from the bar at the other end of the passageway. In spite of the draught seeping in from the street outside, Leon was sweating.

‘Are you sure?’ Leon said.

‘Course I’m fuckin’ sure. I tore the whole place up, just for the crack, but there’s nothing there.’ There was a pause. ‘So when do I get paid?’

‘Stop worrying about your money, okay? You’ll get paid.’

Someone opened the door of the nearby Gents’ toilet, and Leon caught a whiff of disinfectant and stale urine. He turned his face to the wall and lowered his voice.

‘Just stick with her. I want to know everything she does. But don’t get too close. Blow your cover, and the deal’s off.’

He disconnected the call and moved over to a door marked private. He stood in front of it, rubbing his hands along his trouser legs. Then he eased open the door and stepped inside.

The room was the size of a prison cell and just about as well decorated. Light from a single overhead bulb bleached the walls and carpet of any colour. The door closed behind him with a thunk, blocking out all sound as though he’d been sucked into a vacuum. He stepped over to the green baize table where four other people were seated.

‘Come on, Leon, are you in or what?’ The dealer scowled at him, his sun-damaged skin corrugated with wrinkles. His name was Mattie, and Leon heard he spent most of his life crewing other people’s yachts in the Mediterranean. The rest of the time he played poker.

Leon nodded and resumed his seat on Mattie’s right. He slumped in the chair and closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. The only sound was the slick-slick of the cards being dealt.

He hadn’t expected the girl’s apartment to be clean. There had to be a record of the money somewhere. Where the hell was she hiding it?

Mattie slapped the deck on the table beside him. Leon straightened up and tried to concentrate on the game. Being distracted was no way to play high-stakes poker.

They were playing no-limit Texas Hold ’Em. Each player was dealt two cards face down, which he had to combine with five communal cards to make a poker hand. Usually it was Leon’s favourite game, every betting round another opportunity to coax money out of some loser’s pocket. But tonight it felt as though he was the loser. And if he didn’t win the next hand, he was fucked.

He slid his two cards towards him, lining up their edges, one on top of the other. He peeked at the bottom card. King of spades. He glanced around the table but no one was paying him any attention. He squeezed the top card out from behind the first, just enough to see one corner of it. Another king. His heartbeat broke into a little canter and he worked hard not to let it show.

The player on Leon’s right tossed a handful of chips into the centre of the table. ‘Raise a grand.’

Leon threw him a sharp look. The guy was built like a professional wrestler, with grey hair scraped back into a ponytail that reached halfway down his back. His face was unreadable.

Leon made a show of playing with his chips, but he didn’t stall for long. With kings back to back in the hole, he intended to hit them hard. ‘Yours plus another thousand.’

Mattie shook his head and flung his cards on the table. The old bald guy to his left consulted his hole cards and consigned them to the muck along with Mattie’s.

Next up was Adele, the only woman at the table. Leon had played with her before. Blonde and in her forties, she always dressed in a smart business suit and played a tight game. She studied Leon’s face for a moment and called his raise.

Leon waited for the Wrestler to decide if he was in or out. What the hell did he have? Leon was in no mood to work it out. Sal Martinez could have done the maths in an instant, but that kind of stuff made Leon’s head hurt. All he knew was the pot was now over eight thousand euros, and he needed to win it badly.

It didn’t help that he was playing almost entirely with his clients’ money. A couple of businesses whose accounts he’d audited had sent him cheques for owed income tax, cheques that Leon was supposed to submit to the Revenue Commissioners. Somehow the money had made an unplanned pit-stop in his own pocket. Just for a few days.

The Wrestler’s chips clattered into the centre of the table. ‘Call.’

Leon took a deep breath and flexed his shoulders. He could hear the bones cracking at the base of his neck. Mattie flicked the three flop cards face up on the table, the first of the five communal cards. A king, a three and a five, all different suits. Electricity surged through Leon’s veins. Now he had three kings.

Adele checked, and didn’t look happy about it. The Wrestler was up next. With hands the size of baseball gloves, he grabbed a fistful of chips and raised by two thousand euros.

Leon examined the other man’s face. The features were immobile, all apart from a tiny pulse in one eyelid that jumped like a sand flea. It was all Leon needed. He knew that at best the guy was holding a three and a five, giving him two pair. It didn’t beat trip kings.

There were two more cards to come. Should he call or risk another raise? Play the man, not the cards, Martinez would’ve said. But then Martinez was a pretty loose player. Leon had seen him win half a million in a single pot, only to lose it minutes later on a bluff with a pair of threes.

Fuck it, self-confidence was half the game. Leon raised another three grand.

Adele chucked her cards on the table and settled in to watch the rest of the hand. The Wrestler took his time. He riffled his chips, separating them into tall stacks and then splicing them back together with a flick of his jumbo-sized fingers.

‘Call,’ he said finally, challenging Leon with a long stare. ‘Just you and me now.’

Leon didn’t like the smug look on his face. By now there was nearly twenty thousand euros in the pot, and eight thousand of it belonged to him. Or more precisely, to his clients.

Leon’s stomach curdled. Christ. Reduced to pilfering funds from lousy shopkeepers. What the fuck happened? Nine years ago he was making millions, trading on nuggets of inside information. Between them, he and the rest of the trading ring had made over twenty-five million euros in a single year. Sweet deals, every one of them. Until the Sorohan deal, of course. That fucking Martinez.

He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the game. He still hadn’t shaved and he could smell the sourness of his own body. Time for the turn, the fourth communal card. Mattie flipped it over on the table. Another five. Leon sat still. The table now showed a king, a three and two fives. It gave Leon a full house of kings and fives.

The Wrestler pushed a stack of chips into the pot. ‘Five thousand.’

Leon saw the tightening around the other man’s mouth and knew he was still ahead. The Wrestler could be making trip fives, maybe filling a house with threes, but not much else. He called.

Now for the river, the fifth and final card. Leon watched as Mattie rolled a five.

Shit. Now there were three fives on the table. He searched the Wrestler’s face, looking for tells. Could he possibly be holding the last five?

The Wrestler’s forehead glistened in the overhead light. He looked like a melting waxwork. He shoved out the biggest stack yet. Six thousand euros. The middle of the table was beginning to look like a model tower-block city.

Leon gazed at the pot. There was now over thirty-five thousand in there. He almost whimpered out loud. He knew that the thirteen thousand he had contributed was no longer his. It belonged to the pot, and to defend it with more of his own money would be downright stupid. The wise man would fold and walk away.

Leon scooped up his last remaining chips and piled them high in the pot. ‘Call.’

He locked eyes with the Wrestler. Time to reveal their hole cards. The Wrestler went first. Almost in slow motion, he turned over his top card. The three of clubs. So far, that just gave him a house of fives and threes. Leon’s back was drenched in sweat. He stared, transfixed by the second card. The Wrestler rolled it over. The five of diamonds. The only card in the deck that could beat him.

Leon sank back into his chair. Four unbeatable fucking fives. Nausea roiled like an eel in his stomach. His head started to pound, and his vision turned blurry at the edges. That fucking Martinez prick – he’d brought him to this. He’d ruined everything. Leon ground his teeth and choked back a howl of rage. That girl of his deserved everything that was coming to her.

10

‘ETA fifteen minutes,’ Dillon said.

From the way he gunned the engine, Harry could well believe it. He swerved into the outside lane and she gripped the door handle with both hands. If he noticed she was bracing herself for impact, he didn’t mention it.

The Lexus coasted along the open motorway and soon she felt her limbs relax. The car was warm, the murmur of the engine hypnotic. Harry closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

She’d spent over an hour with the police in her apartment. Two officers had arrived, one the same young Garda who’d spoken to her in Pearse Station, the other a plainclothes detective who hadn’t been introduced. The younger one did all the talking. The other had just watched her with quiet grey eyes as she answered questions about the break-in and explained again how she fell in front of a train.

Harry shifted in the passenger seat. Her legs grew heavy and she felt herself drifting. By the time she opened her eyes again it was pitch-dark, and the motorway had turned into a narrow country road lined with thick hedges.

Dillon slowed the car and rolled in through a pair of wrought-iron gates. ‘We’re here.’

Harry peered out the window. Electric lanterns lined the driveway up to the front door. Light splashed upwards along trees and bushes, illuminating everything from below like theatre footlights.

Dillon crunched to a halt and Harry hoisted herself out of the car, gazing at the house that took centre stage in front of them. It was shaped like a gigantic L, with a steeply pitched roof and dormer windows perched along the top like eyes. She could smell the fragrant cedar incense from the conifers that stood on sentry duty by the front door.

‘Like it?’ Dillon said.

Harry looked back at him. He was watching her with a self-satisfied smile, clearly enjoying her reaction to his magnificent home.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you showing off?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. What can I say? No point in having money if you don’t know how to spend it.’ Then he guided her towards the door, his palm brushing against the small of her back. ‘Come on, let’s get you that brandy.’

The entrance hall was the size of her entire apartment. Dillon led the way to a room at the back of the house. Harry hesitated, suddenly aware of how she must look.

‘Maybe I should take that bath first. I feel sort of grubby.’

Dillon’s phone rang before he could reply. He checked the caller ID.

‘It’s Ashford, from KWC. You’d better hang on.’ He took the call. ‘Dillon Fitzroy.’

He stared at the floor, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone. Harry tried to read his face, and something squirmed inside her as she imagined what Ashford had to say. Then she remembered Felix’s belligerence and stuck her chin in the air.

‘Thanks, that’s very understanding of you.’ Dillon threw her a wry look. ‘Unfortunately, Harry’s been in a bit of an accident, but I’ll put another engineer on to it first thing Monday morning.’

Dillon winced at the response on the other end of the phone. Harry flapped her hands to object. Dammit, she could finish the job. But Dillon ignored her.

‘No, no, she’s fine, nothing serious.’ He shot a look in her direction, his expression puzzled. ‘Yes, I’m sure. No, she’s not in hospital. She’ll be available to hand things over to Imogen Brady on Monday.’

Dillon began to wind up the call and finally disconnected. He stared at her.

Harry kept her chin in the air. ‘I can do the pen test.’

‘Let’s not push it, okay?’

‘What did he say?’

‘He was full of apologies for today, said none of it was your fault.’ He folded his arms and considered her for a moment. ‘He seemed very concerned for your welfare. Quite shocked to hear you were in an accident. Do you two know each other?’

Harry frowned and shook her head. Then her brow cleared. ‘He knew my father. Old pals, apparently.’

‘Ah.’ Dillon checked his watch. ‘I need to make some calls. You take that bath. Upstairs, second room on the left. The wardrobe has plenty of clothes.’ He stepped into the room behind him and was gone.

Harry made her way up the stairs, checking out her appearance in the mirrors that lined the walls. Bed-hair, black streaks on her face and crumpled clothes. She looked like a teenage runaway up to no good.

Harry found the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Her eyes swept the room and she whistled. She’d stayed in five-star hotels that weren’t as plush as this. She flung her satchel on the queen-sized bed, and was about to stretch out alongside it when her phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, this is Sandra Nagle from Sheridan Bank Customer Services. Am I speaking with Ms Harry Martinez?’

Harry yanked the phone away from her ear as though she’d been scorched. Shit. The helpdesk supervisor she’d tangled with that afternoon. Had she tracked her down and called her to bawl her out? Then she remembered the woman couldn’t see her and put the phone back to her ear.

‘Ms Martinez?’

‘Sorry, yeah, that’s me.’ Harry perched on the edge of the bed.

‘Our reports have shown up a slight anomaly on your current account. I need to check some of the details with you, if I may?’

Harry blinked. ‘Anomaly?’

‘I just need to confirm the size of the lodgement you made today.’

‘What lodgement?’

There was a pause. ‘Our records show that twelve million euros was lodged into your current account this afternoon.’

Harry’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Is the amount incorrect?’

Was she out of her mind? ‘Of course it’s incorrect. I didn’t make any lodgements.’

‘Perhaps it was lodged by a third party.’

A third party. Something cold dropped into Harry’s stomach. ‘I don’t know anything about that money. Surely your records must show where it came from?’

Sandra cleared her throat. ‘Well, that’s the slight anomaly, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Our records seem to be incomplete. Your recent transactions are on the screen here in front of me, and the lodgement is there, but it’s not coming up with any other information. Usually we can tell whether it’s a cheque, an online transfer and so on, but that part is blank.’

‘Doesn’t it tell you anything? A branch number? A name?’

‘No, just the amount. Twelve million.’

Harry flopped back down on to the bed. What the hell was going on?

‘That twelve million euros doesn’t belong to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it in my bank account.’

She could almost hear the other woman draw herself up.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that,’ Sandra said. ‘The money has been credited to your account.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ Harry closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. ‘People don’t just lodge twelve million euros without leaving some kind of record. Don’t you have any limit checks on what goes in and out of your bank? Wouldn’t someone query an amount like this?’

‘Normally, yes, which is why I’m on the phone to you now.’ Sandra’s teeth sounded clenched. ‘There’s obviously some problem with these transaction details. I’ll put the system-support team on it straight away. But in the meantime, the money stays in your account.’

‘Can you send me out a bank statement? I’d like to see a record of this.’

‘Of course.’ The woman was all service.

Harry hung up. Then she grabbed her satchel and whipped out her laptop, hooking it into a phone jack in the wall. Within minutes she was online, logged into her Sheridan bank account. She clicked the balance option and stared at the screen. Then she refreshed the web page, checking it again. Same answer.

€12,000,120.42

Harry sank back on to the velvety bed. It had to be a mistake, a hitch in the bank’s paperwork. These things happened, didn’t they?

She examined the palms of her hands. The cuts from the gravel were like a row of teeth marks. She sighed and sat up. Who the hell was she fooling? She may not want to face it, but everything that had happened today just had to be connected. And her gut told her the connection was her father. If she was honest with herself, she’d known it from the minute the guy in the station had whispered in her ear. Sorohan was a name that had resonated with significance for her ever since her father’s arrest.