Bravery, Beauty and Photographing Veronica
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I wouldn't say I was friends with Veronica Guerin. We didn't go for pints together or phone for idle chats. But we did work together when I was a photographer and photographic editor with the Sunday Independent. I photographed Veronica only twice and had no idea then how I would remember both occasions for the rest of my life. The first time was when it was decided to put Veronica's picture on the Sunday Independent page one masthead. I gave her a buzz and asked if she'd drop into the studio. You must be joking, she said. No way, she said. There was no way she was looking at herself on the masthead of the Sunday Independent. She hated having her picture taken, and on the masthead, no, no way.
How did Brian Farrell describe photographing Veronica Guerin for the Sunday Independent masthead?
I assured her it would be gorgeous, and she'd be ringing me up in a couple of weeks for a framed copy to give her mother. But she wasn't falling for that. In the end, I could see no way out. I only had one card left to play, but in fairness, it was an ace. Okay, I said, but will you tell the boss? She laughed out loud. I'm brave, she said, but I'm not that brave. That afternoon, Veronica arrived in the office wearing a dark blazer and colourful shirt. I took out the medium format Mamiya camera and we slowly worked our way through a roll of film. But it wasn't happening. Veronica was uneasy. The slow workings of the camera, the sitting still, the studio light, none of it suited Veronica. I knew the sun was splitting the stones outside, so changed cameras and suggested we go to the street.
She was out of the studio in a flash. Too impatient to wait for the antiquated lift, which thought it rude not to stop and open its doors on every floor, we skipped down the stairs, with Veronica warning me to be fast and not have her standing like an idiot in the middle of Middle Abbey Street. People hurried past going about their business and no one paid a bit of attention. Veronica stood with the sun bouncing off her blonde hair and highlighting the shoulder of her jacket. Relaxed, she looked deep into my lens and within minutes we had raced through 36 frames. It was the middle of June 1996 before I photographed Veronica again. She was writing a series of articles on Ireland's leading criminals and was setting up the warehouse man, John Traynor, for me to grab a picture.
The where, when and how had to be worked out, but I was to expect a call at short notice. On Friday, June 14th, I had just finished a job in Clontarf and was settling in for a nice drive south to work on a feature in Cork. My only concern was to get out past Newlands Cross before the traffic built up. In Fairview, the phone rang. It was Veronica. She was meeting Trainor in 20 minutes at the Greyhound bar, Harrow's Cross. She was full of apologies for the short notice, but this was the way it happened, so we worked a plan. She would chat him in the bar, and when I was in situ, I'd text her. She would immediately make her excuses and leave, hopefully quickly followed by Trainor. Before I arrived, Veronica texted to say she had parked her red Opel right beside Trainer's Mercedes.
She was making it easy for me. I buried myself in the bushes across the road in Harals Cross Park with a perfect view of both cars, then texted Veronica to say I was ready. Time passed. Children from a nearby school headed for home. I was concerned about being seen close to a school hidden in a bush with a very large lens on my camera. I was also gagging for a cigarette. One passing school child flicked a butt on the pavement. I stifled a laugh remembering how as a child we'd hoped adults would flick a butt which we could smoke and now here I was in role reversal. It was within reach if only I slipped my arm through the iron railings. Just then my phone vibrated. It was Veronica and they were both leaving.
I put my eye to the camera and waited for them to appear. They did and so did the 16A bus to momentarily block my view but Veronica stalled them.
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