The Stone House (25 page)

‘Fraud?' he said, leaning across the table.

She reddened. She could not believe the bizarre situation she was in. She could strangle her father for what he'd done. ‘I'm not sure.'

He buttered a piece of fresh walnut bread, concentrating.

‘Any more?'

‘The Revenue are talking about investigating.'

He groaned aloud. ‘Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse! Are you trying to ruin my lunch?'

She gulped a glass of chilled Ballygowan, watching the forty-year-old accountant tear into his seared crab cakes and salad starter. Her own appetite was somewhere down in her toes as she sipped at her soup.

‘You said things are in a fucking mess, no accounts done or signed off on. Sounds bad but it could be advantageous. Maybe your client didn't quite know how bad the situation was.'

She sat up, paying attention.

‘Was there anyone else involved in this?'

‘A partner, but he retired a few years ago.'

‘A sleeping partner.'

‘No he was the main holder of the company originally, he looked after the finances.'

‘Maybe what your client needs to do is play cowboys.'

‘Play cowboys!' she spluttered.

‘Yeah, come out with his hands up! The taxmen like that. Well, sometimes.'

She was intrigued. As the waiter cleared their plates and brought the main courses, she asked, ‘But what about the backhanders, the payments?'

‘Obviously there would have to be some sort of an assessment of moneys given and the taxes lost. There are two situations here to be considered and dealt with, the likelihood of the council or whoever is involved being able to prove bribery – not an easy thing to get people to confess or admit to, and an in-depth investigation by the taxmen would likely take an age. For me to ascertain the likely damage to your client and the settlement offer should one be made I'd need to have time to study the files, bank recs, deposit accounts, current property valuations, etc.'

‘It sounds very complicated, Rory.'

‘I suppose it's sort of forensic accounting, if you want to call it that in laymen's terms.'

‘Do you think you'd be able to help us?'

‘Should do. Do you want me to go to your client's premises?'

‘No, I'll get the information to you, it will take a few days to get it sorted and packed up.'

‘That'll be fine.'

‘Rory, I'd appreciate it if you kept this under your hat.'

‘There is always client confidentiality,' he said seriously.

‘It's just that Bill and the other partners aren't involved. This one's mine.'

‘I get it,' he said, ordering a milky cappuccino. ‘Send the stuff over and I'll get back to you.'

Relieved, she tried to relax and enjoy the end of the meal with Rory, the two of them talking about mutual acquaintances and favourite Dublin haunts. Sitting across the table from him she realized how both physically and mentally she was attracted to him, sighing to herself when she noticed the big gold wedding ring on his finger and wondering why it was that all the guys she fancied lately seemed to be married.

She phoned her mother and father when she got back to the office to tell them the latest progress.

‘He's gone into Waterford to meet someone. He should be back for dinner.'

‘How is Dad anyway?'

‘He's still not eating or sleeping properly, the worry of this is really getting to him. The sooner all this business is over the better and we can get back to normal.'

Kate sighed. The likelihood of things returning to normal were slim, and they'd probably have to sell off some of their assets to clear money her father owed.

‘Listen, Mum, I'll be down again this weekend, tell Dad we've a lot to go through.'

What a crap life! Killing herself all week in the office and then the whole weekend given up to sorting out her father's mess, trying to put some kind of order on things before she carted it back to Dublin to Rory.

‘What about this one, Kate, it refers to Kirwan's land deal and this one the O'Reilly and the Clears.'

‘I'll look at it in a second. Dad, didn't you ever think of getting a computer and putting everything up properly on it? It would cut down hugely on the paperwork and mess. You wouldn't know yourself.'

‘Martin wouldn't have it. Kicked up a huge fuss any time I mentioned it.'

‘Dad! You told us you had a racehorse.
One
horse!'

‘Aye Lovely Lass! She's a grand little filly, heart as big as a tiger.'

‘Well it looks like you were being charged for the keep and training of three other horses too by Tommy Brennan.'

‘She did well, so it made sense to add to the stable. Sligo Girl, Kilkenny Kate after yourself and Moyaromy.'

‘Jesus. Dad, I don't believe you!'

‘They've run a few good races, Tommy feels they have potential.'

‘Dad, are you gone stark staring mad? These racehorses are costing you a fortune!'

Kate riffled through a heavy black ledger, running her fingers down the columns. Money paid out. Payment for Milo Richardson's farm holding, payment for Mulcahy's outbuildings and four acres . . . Her finger stopping suddenly. Payment to Hazel Lavelle? That couldn't be . . .

‘Dad, did you pay out money to the Lavelles?' she asked, puzzled.

Her father stopped what he was doing, but didn't turn around.

‘I invested in it a few years ago. Hazel wanted to retire, give up the café and was looking for a buyer.
We did the usual trawl but no takers, then we realized there was a buyer right under our noses.'

‘Sheila O'Grady,' she whispered.

‘Aye, the trouble was none of the banks in the county would lend a widow with five children a bob, so she came to me.'

‘You financed her!'

‘I made a business investment.'

Kate couldn't believe it! She could still remember the winter when Lavelle's small bakery and teashop had closed down for a few months, the whole town curious as to what was going on behind the hoardings, then with huge fanfare it had reopened as a large bright restaurant that overlooked the seafront, with a small paved courtyard to the back. The best of food served from lunchtime right through to dinner in the evening, patrons advised to book a table, especially at the busy weekends. In the separate tall glass-fronted annexe beside the restaurant door a sign proclaimed ‘Lavelle's Fine Foods', a totally separate enterprise where fresh breads, cakes, desserts and biscuits and prepared meals were sold.

‘Sheila was a good investment. She knew the business inside out, was a good worker and in Hazel's eyes was totally trustworthy and a suitable person to take over and run the business.'

‘Was this before or after I caught you two together?' she snapped.

‘That's none of your business,' he replied slowly. ‘Sheila O'Grady is a good woman who has worked damned hard to build up a rock-solid business and I was glad at that time to be able to help her!'

Her father was defending and standing up for the woman he'd had an affair with!

‘But what about you and Mammy?'

‘Your mother and I were going through a terrible time after Sean died, that's all I'll say. It's not an excuse but it's the truth. Sheila O'Grady understood. She'd lost her husband and was on her own raising a family. I suppose we were both in our own way lonely.'

Kate still remembered it, the awful time when her parents barely spoke and grief had filled the house.

‘I don't know what I'd have done without Sheila, probably ended up in St Pat's.' He spoke of the other woman with more than affectionate kindness and Kate suddenly realized that her father actually loved Sheila, and held her in high regard. She hadn't the courage to ask him if the relationship was still going on.

Hunkering down on the floor she riffled through more paperwork, old bank statements.

‘Dad, I don't believe it! There's a cheque here from one of your clients and you didn't even bother lodging it.'

‘Give it to me!' he insisted, pulling it out of her hand and immediately tearing it up.'

‘What the hell did you do that for?' she demanded.

‘I was only holding it for someone. Anyway, it was long out of date.'

No wonder his affairs were in such a state of calamity, thought Kate as she studied a massive red folder, her heart sinking as she perused the contents.

Cove Cottages. She remembered the time her father and Martin had built the sixteen summer homes; a journalist from the Dublin papers had come down to photograph them and everyone was amazed when they were
all sold thirty-six hours later. Looking through the folder she discovered a copy of the deed of sale of the late Maggie Roche's three-bedroomed cottage and stables and acre of land to Cove Holdings. Dillon and Duffy had acted as auctioneer for the executor who was Maggie's only living relative, a nephew in New Jersey. A private treaty sale, the old woman's house and land, looking at it now, seemed to have gone for a lot less than the market value. A copy of her father's letter to Dwight Roche advising him to accept the offer as the dwelling was almost uninhabitable and the land not worth much was still on file.

Kate could remember the old woman out lovingly tending her garden and vegetable patch and the two ageing donkeys she kept. The nephew had approved the sale and Dillon Duffy had passed the parcel of land to Cove Holdings, one of their own privately held companies. Planning permission had been granted almost immediately. Kate groaned. What would happen if this nephew surfaced or could ever be found? ‘Dad why did you do this?' she said.

‘Not a sinner ever came to see that poor soul! Not a visitor from across the way ever, not even a postcard from America – ask Larry Murphy the postman. He'll tell you. Maggie hadn't even made a will. It would have stuck in my craw to send a big cheque off to some high-flying young buck in America! Martin and I did give a big donation afterwards to the Donkey Sanctuary place on Maggie's behalf. She'd have liked that.'

‘Jesus, Dad, donkeys or not, it wasn't your decision to make.' She laughed. ‘And you'd no right to manipulate the sale. You are legally up the fucking creek!'

‘Kate, I know I've let you all down,' he admitted despairingly, slumping across his office desk. ‘As God is my judge, I didn't mean for any of this to happen.'

Kate knew from dealing with cases over the years that what he really meant was that he hadn't intended being caught. She'd pack up the rest of the stuff tonight and hopefully get it to Rory over the next day or two. Her father was in a whole heap of trouble and she would have to do her utmost to bail him out.

‘I always knew some day having a lawyer in the family might be a good thing,' he said half jokingly as he passed her a box.

‘You and your bloody Donkey Sanctuary! The Revenue Commissioners will go crazy!'

‘
KATE, YOU KNOW
something, you're getting to be a boring old fart.'

‘Thanks,' she said, taking a sip of her beer. If it had come from anyone else, she would have ranted and raved and retaliated in some smart Alec fashion but since the speaker was her cousin Conor Quinn and he was only saying it in her best interest she had no option but to humbly agree with his rather insulting opinion.

They were in McDaid's in Harry Street drinking, pints of cool Miller.

‘You bloody well work too hard and don't go out and enjoy yourself enough.'

Sitting in her black pinstripe suit she stared into the golden bubble of liquid and knew that much of what he was saying was true.

‘I have a very demanding job,' she tried to explain, ‘and . . .'

‘We all have jobs! Everyone works hard to get the money to go out and give it a lash during the weekends or after work.'

‘But my day isn't nine to five. At my level the company expects more as I'm dealing with big corporates.'

‘Expects too bloody much if you ask me. Do you want to waste your life away on some big fat ass company when you've no life of your own?'

‘Conor, that's a bit harsh,' she argued.

‘You hardly ever get home for the weekend. You work overtime so you've no chance to go out with your friends and have a bit of crack.'

There was no point telling him she'd actually spent more time down home in Rossmore the past few weeks than she'd done for months. ‘I still see Minnie and Dee sometimes,' she protested.

‘Yeah for a quick lunch or to go to the cinema, I bet.'

She slumped against the bar counter. Everything he was saying was true.

‘My life is shit,' she admitted, catching the barman's eye and ordering another pint. ‘Correction, I enjoy my work but my personal life is shit.'

‘Then we need to remedy it.'

‘Do what, though?' She felt totally deflated, wondering how she was ever going to rescue herself from the boring structure she had created. Another pint and she'd be weeping on Conor's shoulder.

‘Listen, you've got to make sure your free time is your own and that you don't spend it banjaxed lying in bed on a Saturday or Sunday trying to sleep off the exhaustion of a week in work.'

Did Conor have a secret camera hidden in her new apartment or was he just able to read her that well?

‘You need rescuing.' He grinned, stuffing his face with peanuts from the bowl near them.

‘What did you have in mind?' she laughed.

‘Fresh air and sails and life on the ocean wave!' he coaxed.

‘Sailing?'

‘Yeah I need to crew a boat down to West Cork and I'm short a hand. It's only for a few days.'

‘I'm up to my tonsils with work,' she began to explain.

‘I'm not asking you about work. I'm asking you to take a few days off work and spend some time on the boat with me. It'll be fun, if you remember that word.'