CHITCHAT is a favoured phrase of Tom Gilmartin. Long ago, when he returned home to this impoverished isle, intent on dragging it into prosperity, everybody wanted a chitchat with the Sligo-born developer.

There was Liam Lawlor, intent on chitchatting his way to becoming a consultant to Gilmartin. ("I wouldn't have that man consulting on a shithouse, " the bould Tom once noted. ) There was George Redmond, whose chitchat was accompanied by an outstretched paw. On one occasion, Gilmartin dropped in for a chitchat with Padraig Flynn and left with his bank account 50 grand lighter.

There was what was referred to as a "chitchat meeting" in Leinster House in 1989 between most of Charlie Haughey's cabinet and Gilmartin. Whatever chitchatting went on there must have been forgettable because notables such as Bertie Ahern and Seamus Brennan have no recollection of it. Mary O'Rourke remembers it perfectly well.

Following that meeting, Gilmartin says he was approached by a man who handed him a piece of paper with an offshore bank account number, to which he was instructed to deposit IR�5m.

"You lot make the so-and-so mafia look like a bunch of monks, " was how Tom says he replied to the request.

Fast forward 10 years to Gilmartin's starring role for the tribunal investigating planning corruption. By all accounts, the chitchat behind closed doors got out of hand. In private sessions with lawyers for the Mahon tribunal, he sprayed a scatter-gun of allegations at anybody whom he blamed for his misadventures in Dublin all those years ago. The allegations ranged from suggesting Ahern took a major bribe to accusing developer Owen O'Callaghan of being in some way complicit in the death of Cork TD Hugh Coveney, who died in an accidental fall in 1998. All the stuff that went on behind closed doors was only exposed following a court challenge by O'Callaghan and the nature of some of it does damage to Gilmartin's credibility as a witness.

This week, Gilmartin will be back centre-stage. Following tortured delays, the tribunal's inquiry into Quarryvale (now Liffey Valley shopping centre) resumes.

Gilmartin is scheduled to reveal some more tales of ordinary madness from '80s Ireland.

Eyebrows have been raised at the timing. When Gilmartin last gave his evidence in 2004, there was a round of applause from the public gallery after the chairman admonished Ahern's barrister, Conor Maguire, for being unfair to the witness.

This time out, Bertie will be dragging his winning smile around the country as a gruff blast from the past tells how elements of Fianna Fail got highly excited at the prospect of fleecing him all those years ago.

However, it's unlikely that the witness will be able to get into his stride before the tribunal shuts down ahead of the election. In any event, there is poetic justice in the timing of this appearance. The details of petty and serious corruption which have tumbled out of tribunal-land over the last decade have had little impact on electoral politics. One reason for this is the piecemeal manner in which revelations have emerged.

Had, for example, the more colourful exploits of Ray Burke and Liam Lawlor emerged in the six months before the last election, there may well have been consequences. The electorate is credited with being somewhat indifferent to what went on, but fortune has smiled on Ahern and his party in this regard. So far.

Fortune has not been as kind to Gilmartin over the last 20 years or so. He left the family farm in Lislarry, Co Sligo in the '50s, despite having prospects of a career in the civil service. He took the boat and in London worked in the engineer business before entering property development and settling in Luton. Like other industrious Irish people before him, the sight of opportunity brought out the best in his ability. He prospered over the course of a 30-year career.

Then he came home. In 1986, on a visit to Dublin, the developer spotted potential in a derelict site on Bachelor's Walk. It was to be his first experience of how business was done on this side of the Irish Sea.

Redmond, he claims, kept putting up "roadblocks". Rivals who knew how things were done got in on the act and capitalised on Gilmartin's vision.

He had a similar experience in Quarryvale. Gilmartin spotted the potential in the site, then at the junction of the proposed M50 and the N6 Galway Road. He and his English co-developers found themselves with some baggage on the job.

Lawlor demanded he be taken on as a "consultant".

"Mr Lawlor was a member of parliament, " Gilmartin recalled at the tribunal.

"I was not 100% enlightened as to how business operated in Dublin. As I saw it, Mr Lawlor was there to screw money out of us."

Meanwhile, O'Callaghan was hoping to develop a designated town centre at Balgaddy but the west of the city wasn't big enough for two such developments.

O'Callaghan piggy-backed on Gilmartin and at one stage they were going at it together. Then, things went pear-shaped for the Sligo man. He blames O'Callaghan, but others suggest his problems were financial and unrelated to anything his partner or politicians like Lawlor might have done.

What is beyond doubt is that the ultimate rezoning of the site was the most outrageous example of planning corruption from the time. Local people wanted a town centre, as had been earmarked for the, by then, abandoned, Balgaddy site. The developers wanted a commercial retail outlet, which would give the maximum return. The politicians, egged on by Frank Dunlop, knew on which side their bread was buttered. Just how it all went down will be raked over in the coming months.

Gilmartin saw himself as a visionary. He says he wanted to stem immigration and provide jobs. Yet it was his initiative which focused minds on Quarryvale and shopping, rather than a town centre and infrastructure for an area that was disadvantaged. Weak or corrupt politicians did the rest.

He returned to Luton with his tail between his legs. In latter years, he came home and settled in Cork. His wife has suffered ill health and he now dedicates most of his time to caring for her.

The tragedy of his professional foray into Dublin was that he was a man out of time.

A decade later and it could well have been gravy all the way. Instead, he found himself among the ranks of the pioneers who end up getting shot, having paved the way for the settlers who get rich.

C.V.

Background: Went to England with nothing and became a millionaire developer before a disastrous foray into Dublin in the late '80s nearly ruined him. These days he is a star witness at the planning tribunal.

In the News: He is scheduled to give evidence at the tribunal this week.

Most likely to say: "Chitchat is good for the soul."

Least likely to say: "The past is another country."