Chapter 17
Dervla
Whitmore’s office has been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. I can smell the bleach as I rip the police tape away from the doorframe. The chair that he died in has been removed, obviously, so I drag one of the chairs from this side of the desk around and sit.
I take a second to acknowledge that I’m in way over my head, and that turns into ten, then thirty, then a minute.
Shit. Fuck. What have I done?
“Having second thoughts?” Declan asks, coming over to perch on the edge of the desk while Aidan and Séamus’ men start rounding up whoever is in the building. They are the ones to go first.
“Maybe a little.”
Roisin snorts. “You’d have to be incredibly narcissistic if you didn’t.”
“Aww. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.” She flops down in the remaining chair on the other side of the desk. “I hope Kevin and Cormac come back soon.”
I raise an eyebrow and share a look with Declan. Kevin? Not Gallagher. Kevin. It’s the first time she has called him that. I stare at her, and she purses her lips, clears her throat and stands up, moving to the window.
Declan smirks, and I suppress my smile.
“Not a word,” Roisin says to neither of us in particular, still facing the window.
“Didn’t say anything,” I reply.
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking it very loudly.”
She turns and points a finger at me. “You especially can shut up.”
That does it. I laugh, brief and tired, and Declan chuckles under his breath from the edge of the desk.
“Hey, none of my business, and if you’re happy, then good luck to you.”
She is saved from having to answer me when a knock lands against the open office door.
Aidan appears first. Darragh is behind him with another guard and a man who looks like he is about to wet himself.
“This one handles central records,” Aidan says.
The man goes paler. “I handle some records.”
“Mm,” I say. “That sounds like the kind of distinction people make when they’re lying by inches.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Great. Then this should go quickly.” I sit back in the chair and gesture at the one in front of the desk. “Sit.”
He looks at Aidan like maybe there is still some sane authority in the room who will save him from me.
There isn’t.
He sits.
Badly. Half on the edge, knees too tight together, hands hovering like he can’t decide whether to put them on his lap or the chair arms. Late thirties, maybe. Soft around the middle. Patchy beard. University lanyard still around his neck.
“Name?”
“Martin Kehoe.”
“Role?”
“Assistant registrar for records management.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“I oversee archive access, student files, documentation retention, internal transfer logs, some staffing—”
“Some staffing,” I repeat. “That sounds like another lying-by-inches phrase.”
“I don’t hire anyone.”
“No. You just help paper them into existence after someone else decides they belong.”
His throat works. “That is an unfair way to describe administrative procedure.”
“Good. I’m trying to be unfair.” I lean forward, rest my elbows on the desk and look at him. “Tell me how Siobhán Fitzpatrick got into this institution.”
“I don’t know.”
Aidan closes the door behind him.
The click lands beautifully.
Martin flinches.
I nod once. “Wrong answer. Try a less reckless one.”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
“You genuinely don’t know,” I repeat. “That’s your best effort?”
“It’s true,” Martin says too quickly. Sweat shines on his hairline. “She came through standard channels.”
“Nothing here is standard,” Roisin says from the window.
Martin’s eyes flick to her and then away again.
I open the top drawer of Whitmore’s desk and find nothing useful except pens, a stapler, and a letter opener. I pick up the letter opener anyway and set it on the desk between us.
Martin stares at it.
Declan slides off the edge of the desk. “You know what I hate about admin people?”
Martin says nothing.
“They always think procedure is a shield,” Declan says. “Like if they say workflow enough times, nobody notices the bodies.”
“I haven’t done anything,” Martin blurts.
Aidan gives a quiet laugh that contains no humour. “That remains to be seen.”
I spin the letter opener once under my fingers. “Let’s simplify it. Who signed off on Siobhán’s hiring?”
“I’d have to check.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d know if it was ordinary. The fact that you’re reaching for records instead of memory means it wasn’t.” I tilt my head. “Who pushed it through?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would be refreshing.”
He swallows again. “The file came flagged.”
“Flagged by who?”
“I don’t know. It had priority routing.”
“From whose office?”
His silence answers before he does.
Roisin straightens from the window. “From whose office?”
Martin licks his lips. “The Chancellor.”
The room goes still for half a beat.
I tap the letter opener once against the desk. “You mean the Vice-Chancellor?” I say slowly. The Chancellor is a figurehead position. The outward face of the institution.
Martin shakes his head. “The Chancellor. I thought it was strange and double checked, but his office said it was above board.”
I sit back again. I don’t even know who the Chancellor is.
“You’re fired,” I say to Martin. “Pack up your desk and go. Now.”
“What?” he stammers.
Aidan steps closer. “She doesn’t like repeating herself.”
Martin glances up and then rises swiftly. He goes with Darragh at his back to make sure he leaves the grounds.
“Chancellor?” I ask. “Who is that?”
Roisin and Aidan exchange a look.
That is never good.
“Officially?” Roisin says. “Lord Brendan Murphy.”
I frown. “Who the fuck is Lord Brendan Murphy? Oh… any relation to Ronan?”
“Father,” Roisin confirms.
I stare at the desk, at the neat rows of files that mean nothing yet, at Whitmore’s shelves and his dead absence in the room. “How involved is the Chancellor in actual governance?”
“Not much day to day,” Roisin says. “He presides, blesses, attends, smooths donors, signs certain approvals when symbolism matters. Which means if Siobhán came through there, somebody wanted her protected at a level people don’t usually question.”
Aidan’s expression goes colder.
“Which places Lord Brendan firmly in the baddie camp,” I say with a quizzical stare at him. “What?”
“Troy said that Ronan was working against the Romans.”
“And we believe Troy because?”
“Oh, I believe him,” Aidan says. “That isn’t in doubt. But why was Ronan working against his dad?”
“A question for another time. We have firings to do right now,” I say decisively. I can’t handle another ‘why’ mystery. The fact is, it makes no difference. I don’t give a fuck. The only thing I care about right now is turfing out every rotten apple from this cart.
Darragh reappears with a woman this time. Mid-fifties. Severe bob. Navy skirt. ID lanyard. Her mouth is set in the kind of line that usually belongs to people who think rules are a personality.
“Bursar’s office,” Darragh says.
“Former bursar’s office,” I correct.
The woman stiffens. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re fired. Next.”
Darragh gives me a look like a proud uncle, and I beam at him. He hauls the woman out and shoves a man in.
He stumbles to a stop in front of the desk, blinking behind rectangular glasses.
“Role?”
“Deputy finance controller.”
“Former,” I correct. “You’re fired too.”
His face drains. “On what basis?”
“On the basis that this institution is infested, and I am in no mood to sort wheat from chaff one spreadsheet at a time. Bye now.”
“You will be hearing from my lawyer about this…”
Darragh shoves him roughly out. “I’ll tell Mr ó Briain to expect their call.”
He pales and sputters, but goes as the other guard drags another man in.
“Name?” I fire at the guard.
“Winston.”
“Right, Winston. This is taking too long. Round them all up and bring them in for a mass sacking.”
“Nice,” he mutters and disappears.
I stare at the man. “That includes you. Fired. Go.”
“What?”
“You heard her,” Darragh says and practically kicks him out. I don’t think he’s had this much fun in years.
Within minutes, they start herding in.
A little parade of institutional parasites and terrified middle management. I fire every last one of them.
As they leave, some in shock, others in anger, I turn to Aidan. “We need to make sure their access cards no longer work.”
“I can do that,” Roisin says. “I’ll head down to IT now. Seeing as there are hundreds of staff you have yet to let loose, I’ll just disable everyone’s and send out a staff text while I’m at it.”
“Efficient. Nice. You’re hired.”
She gives me a long stare. “As what?”
I shrug. “Pick your poison, bitch. This place is wide open.”
Roisin looks around Whitmore’s office like I’ve offered her a diseased crown.
“You can’t just appoint me to something because I happen to be standing here.”
“Watch me,” I say. “Interim operations. Governance. Head of being useful. I don’t care what the title is. You know this place, you know the snakes, and you already act like you own corridors.”
Declan snorts.
Roisin stares at me for another second, then says, “Fine. Interim Chief of Staff.”
I point at her. “That. Congratulations. You have authority and probably a headache.”
“I had the headache already.” She turns for the door, but I see the small smile.
Aidan watches her go, then looks back at me. “You do realise you’ve just started building an administration.”
“I know. It’s disgusting.”
Darragh reappears with Winston, both of them trying not to look entertained. They fail.
“The building is cleared,” Darragh says.
I nod. “With Roisin revoking all staff access, we need to lock down every door, including the ones we don’t know about yet.”
“And then the siege will come,” Declan says.
“And then Cormac and Gallagher had better hurry the fuck up with those weapons. We can’t hold down the fort with a couple of handguns and a blade or two.”
“You still have that grenade?” Aidan asks.
I pull it out of my pocket and place it on the desk. “Of course. Not that it will do much against a horde of whoever the fuck is going to come storming in.”
“You should probably call Séamus,” Declan says.
“Yeah,” I agree and pull out my phone. “You’re probably right.”