She had finished her drink and stood up. He made as if to follow, but she shook her head quickly, smiled her goodnights and left the room. It would have been a mistake. And what had happened to Patrick after she had gone to her room? At the time he was in the ambulance, the paramedics were working on him, his heart was failing, its muscle already dying, his organs shutting down, his brain cells withering from lack of oxygen. She couldn’t remember. She would have gone to the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, washed her face, changed into her pyjamas. Picked up a book to read, put it down. Switched off the bedside lamp. Lain first on one side, then on the other, tossed and turned. Dropped off to sleep somewhere between two thirty and three. Slept until the birds woke her at six. The kookaburra’s ancient laugh, the whip birds, the male and female calling back and forth to each other. Time to get up, to bake the bread for which she was renowned. Prepare the breakfast. The American had a plane to catch that morning in Brisbane. She’d ordered a taxi to come at eight. She would have called to confirm it. She would have checked the bookings for the day. Made out a shopping list for her weekly supermarket run. While Patrick’s body lay in a morgue in a hospital in Málaga. Already stiffening with rigor mortis. Already decaying.
She had printed out the death notice from the newspaper. Survived by his three children, it said. Well, that was true. He’d once had four. Now there were three. He had wanted her to have an abortion. He had given her the money. She had gone to England. Then, when Mary was a year old, to New Zealand. As far away as she could go. She had stayed away from him. But he had helped her, later, when she really needed him. He had gone with her to Ballyknockan. He had beaten Jimmy Fitzsimons on the head and knocked him out. He had helped her drag him to the shed and chain him up. Then he had walked away with her, knowing what would happen. All this he had done for her and for Mary. One day, she had thought, one day he will come to look for me and we will be together. The way we should have been.
But that day would never happen now. And now he was dead she no longer needed to protect him. She closed down her laptop. She poured boiling water into the teapot. She opened the back door and stepped out into the garden. The sky was a clear pale blue. She shivered, suddenly exhausted. She turned back into the kitchen, poured tea into a mug and added milk, then walked upstairs. She would sleep now. Now that it was morning and the time for ghosts was over. She would sleep until the sun was high in the sky. And she could face her past once again.
FIVE
The Lake House was in the Wicklow mountains, barely ten miles or so from the city but another world altogether. Its roof was just about visible from the high road through Sally Gap. Beyond it was Lough Dubh, where Marina Spencer had died. In the summer it was a sliver of silver between the heather-covered hills, in the winter a gleaming slice of polished jet. McLoughlin looked at the row of photographs that hung on the wall. Sally Spencer stood beside him.
‘It’s such a beautiful place, you’ve no idea. Just so beautiful.’ She reached out and touched the nearest picture with the tip of her finger, then stepped back and sat down on the sofa. She gestured to McLoughlin to take the chair beside the fireplace.
‘The estate had been in James’s family for years. He was so proud of the place. I remember when I first met him he couldn’t wait to bring me out there. We’d go every weekend. Before we got married, even. Winter and summer. Even when Sally Gap was snowed in, he had a Land Rover with special tyres and we’d stock up like we were going to the North Pole. I’d bring Marina and Tom and he’d bring Dominic, his son. And we’d have a ball.’ Sally’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I remember one New Year, it snowed really heavily and even with the special tyres we couldn’t get out. We slept in the one room. Kept the fire going all night. It was such fun.’
McLoughlin said nothing. He sipped the tea she had placed on the table beside him.
‘But then, after we got married, it changed. Dominic would have nothing to do with me. Or my kids. Up till then they’d got on quite well apart from the usual teenage tensions, but after the marriage it changed. Especially with Marina. He used to pick on her. Wind her up. Tease her. You know the sort of thing?’
McLoughlin nodded. He knew the sort of thing.
‘I did kind of wonder if he was attracted to her. But I don’t think it was that. I think he was jealous, resentful. I think he’d always been suspicious that I was to blame for his parents’ separation. But that was rubbish. All that had happened before I met James. They’d grown apart. Stopped being . . .’ she paused and looked away ‘. . . stopped being intimate. James wanted a divorce. His wife, Dominic’s mother, agreed to it. And they seemed to work things out quite well between them. They had joint custody of Dominic and I knew he was close to both his parents. I thought time would sort everything out between him and me but . . . I don’t know. Something went badly wrong and it never got put right.’ The tears slipped from her eyes.
‘How old was he?’ McLoughlin shifted on his chair. He wasn’t enjoying this.
‘Seventeen. Older than my two. Very adult. Articulate, good-looking, sophisticated. I think, looking back, that I didn’t appreciate how close he and his mother were. How much influence she had over him. And he was very possessive about the Lake House and the estate. I think he thought I was a gold-digger.’ She smiled and pulled a tissue from her pocket. ‘If he only knew. I didn’t care about any of it. Looking back, I’m sorry that James and I bothered with the marriage. It caused nothing but trouble. But, well, we can’t change it now.’
It was very quiet in Sally’s small house. It was tucked into Trafalgar Lane, once a mews behind Trafalgar Terrace, a row of Victorian three-storeys facing Dublin Bay to the north. It was a pretty house, sunny and bright, although there were signs of neglect. The sun shining on the windows showed how long it had been since they were last cleaned, and a pall of dust dulled the shine of the furniture. Sally, too, was worn and neglected. She was small and very thin. Her face was grey with tiredness, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Her fair hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She leaned down and stroked the rough coat of the small dog sleeping at her feet.
‘Sorry, sorry. I can’t stop crying these days. I keep trying to get a grip, but . . .’ She shrugged and made a wan attempt at a smile. ‘I can’t believe this has happened. I thought, when James died, that nothing that bad could ever happen again. I thought in some ridiculous way that I’d had more than my fair share of death and tragedy. That I’d be immune to it for ever. And now this.’
She stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. She picked up a photograph in a silver frame, turned and held it out to McLoughlin. ‘This is my Marina. She was so lovely. Always, from the moment she was born. She was a wonderful little girl, and a gorgeous grown-up. And what’s so sad is that for the first time I really felt she’d got her life together. Here.’ She kissed the cold glass covering the photograph, then handed it to McLoughlin.
Sally was right. Marina was lovely. Dark hair pulled back off her face and dark brown eyes to match. A wide smile. High cheekbones. The kind of woman you’d notice.
‘How old was she?’ McLoughlin handed the picture back.
Sally folded her arms over it protectively and sat down again.
‘When that was taken? Or when . . .’
‘When she died.’
‘She was thirty-two. She didn’t look it, though. People always thought she was much younger.’
‘You too. You don’t look old enough to have a child of that age.’
She smiled, and for a moment his words were not just flattery. ‘I was very young when I had her. I was barely eighteen. My husband and I were teenage sweethearts. We got married when I was six months pregnant. Not that either of us cared. We were madly in love. I’d just done the Leaving Cert and Robbie was in college. But he worked part time and somehow we scraped by.’
‘And you’ve another child too?’
‘My son, Tom, was born two years later. And then when James and I got married we had Vanessa. She was ju
st a baby when James died.’ The tears were flowing again. ‘I’d brought two children up without a father. The last thing I wanted was to have to do it again.’ She began to sob.
McLoughlin looked away. What on earth was he doing here? All those years of giving people bad news. He’d had enough. He stared out the window. He could see above the high houses on both sides that the sky was a perfect pale blue. A gust of wind stirred the leaves on the old sycamores. Force four to five, he reckoned. Perfect sailing weather. He looked around the room and took in the carriage clock on the bookshelf. It was two thirty. If he could wrap this up soon he’d be in time to meet up with his friend Paul. Get some more info on the next trip to France.
‘I’m not sure I can help you with this, Sally. I’m sure the local guards did everything they could to establish the cause of your daughter’s death. If they thought it was suicide, well, I know it’s hard to accept, but maybe they were right.’ Fuck Tony Heffernan for dragging him into this. ‘And from what Tony told me there was a note, wasn’t there?’
Sally looked at him. Her eyes, he noticed, were a mottled green. Like pond water, he thought.
‘It was hardly a note. It was a bit of paper found in her bag. It said something about forgiveness. That’s all.’ She paused and looked down at her hands. ‘Look. I can pay you, if that’s a consideration.’
He shook his head. ‘Please, it’s not about money. It’s just that I honestly don’t see what I can do for you.’ He could feel his cheeks reddening.
She stood up and walked towards a large, handsome desk. As she moved, the little dog stretched and yawned, then rolled over and went back to sleep. Sally pulled open the top drawer. She turned towards him, an album in her hands. ‘Please, take this and have a look at it. I collected everything to do with my husband’s death, which was an accident, I know that. Since Marina died I’ve collected everything that’s been written about her and what happened. I had a lot of letters from people who knew her. Read them. See what her friends thought. Don’t make a decision now. I’ll respect whatever you decide.’ She held out the album, as if she was presenting him with a precious gift. ‘Marina did not commit suicide. Perhaps she died accidentally. Perhaps she was drunk and fell into the lake. But I don’t think so. Ever since James drowned Marina has been terrified of water. You know, she was with him in the boat when it happened. I don’t think she’s ever been in one since. Something happened that night at the house. Something that has not been explained. Please take this. Please.’
The album lay on the passenger seat beside him as he drove down the narrow lane and turned towards the main road. Its shiny black cover seemed to give off its own energy. He reached down and touched it and his fingers slipped to its side. He flipped the pages open.
He stopped at the junction. Ahead, Dublin Bay was blue and beautiful. He looked right and left, then crossed carefully and drove down the narrow slip-road, over the railway bridge, towards the Seapoint Martello tower. Then he turned left again on to the small cul-de-sac facing the sea. He had always loved these houses. They had been built for naval officers in the early nineteenth century. They were unassuming but beautifully proportioned, with the flight of six steps to the front door, double-fronted with bay windows to either side. It was a while since he had been here. In the months after Margaret had left he had sometimes parked here at night, gazing out at the sea and thinking about her. Now he found a space to park just beyond the house. He picked up the album. It was heavy. He rested it on the steering-wheel. There was a Pandora feel to all this, he thought. He didn’t want to know what it contained. But, like Pandora’s box, he knew for sure that it held nothing good. All of Sally Spencer’s tragedy and despair were contained within these pages. And now he would be letting them loose.
He put it back on the passenger seat and got out of the car. He stood in front of the house, then bent down to open the gate. It squeaked and grated noisily on the uneven stone path. He picked his way over the limestone flags. They were cracked and broken, and dandelion and buttercup had seeded freely. Rubbish had blown in from the road. Plastic bags, crisps packets and chocolate wrappers had threaded themselves through the shrubs along the walls. He stopped at the bottom of the steps. The wrought-iron railings were rusting and the paint on the door was faded and peeling.
He walked slowly up the steps. The windows of the front rooms downstairs were shuttered. One, he remembered, was a bedroom. Margaret’s mother had lain there for the last few months of her life, keeping an eye on the road as she drifted in and out of her drugged sleep. The room on the other side was a formal drawing room, with a marble fireplace and ornate plasterwork. He had caught a glimpse of it the many times he had visited. But Margaret had never invited him in there. They had always sat in the kitchen downstairs or outside in the garden.
Now McLoughlin bent down and lifted the flap on the letterbox. He let it drop with a loud clang. He lifted it again and this time leaned down to peer through. The hall inside was flooded with sunlight. Blocks of dark reds, greens and yellows from the stained glass on the landing fell across the dusty floorboards. Junkmail was swept into a pile in one corner. He straightened up, then cupped his hands around his face and looked in through the narrow window at the side of the door. And realized how foolish he must seem. What was he doing here? It was time to move forward, not back. He walked slowly down the steps. He closed the gate and got back into his car. He reversed slowly down the road. Bloody awkward place to get out of. Served him right for coming here in the first place. He glanced down at Sally Spencer’s album. Later. He’d look at it later. And then he’d tell her he could do nothing for her. He was sorry but he was going away and he didn’t know when he’d be back.
Margaret lay curled on her side, her eyes open. It was quiet inside the house. She could hear the sounds from the world outside through the heavy wooden shutters. Cars passing, the hoot of a horn, the loud rumble of the DART train gathering speed as it moved out of Seapoint station. From time to time she could hear children’s voices, sometimes an adult shouting. And there was the call of the seagulls as they floated high above the house. But now there was another sound. It was the squeak of the gate as it was opened and pushed back over the uneven stone path. She raised her head and listened. Now there was silence. She lay down again and wrapped her arms around her chest. And heard footsteps outside, the clunk as the letterbox flap was lifted and dropped, once, then a pause, then again. She lay very still, waiting for the shrill ring of the doorbell. But all she heard were the footsteps again, this time retreating back down the steps, along the path, then the harsh squawk of the gate as it was opened and closed. She sat up. She stood and tiptoed to the window. She pressed her face to the gap in the shutters. The garden was empty. The street outside was crowded with cars. A group of teenagers were sitting on the sea wall. They were laughing and shouting at each other, their movements exaggerated, stylized. She stepped away from the shutters and got back on to the bed. She was cold now, and tired. She wrapped the eiderdown around her body and closed her eyes. And she slept.
SIX
‘You went to see her yesterday. She was so pleased you took the time. Thanks. You liked her, I’m sure.’ Heffernan raised his pint in salute, then took a deep swallow. He sank down on the bar stool and tugged at his tie. ‘Jesus, it’s hot today. You’re a lucky swine. Got your retirement in the middle of the hottest summer on record. It’s murder out at the airport, these days. Who’d want to be a guard in Immigration at a time of record effing population change?’ He groaned. ‘We’d a nasty scene today. Another bloody Nigerian trying to bring in a couple of girls.’
‘What is it about Nigerians? They’re something else, aren’t they?’ McLoughlin picked up his glass and swirled it around. ‘Prostitution, drugs, what was it?’
Heffernan shrugged. ‘Probably both. The girls were headed for a meat market somewhere. The poor little things. The guy went crazy when we challenged him. The kids had no passports, no visas, no nothing. He insisted they were his daug
hters. And when we told him we were sending them back to Lagos, he head-butted Derek Flynn. You should have seen it. Blood all over everything. His and Derek’s. We had to cart both of them off to the Mater.’
‘And is Derek OK? I suppose he’ll need an AIDS test, poor bugger.’
‘Your man was clean, so that’s one thing in his favour. We arrested him for assault but he’ll be out on bail before you can spit. He already has refugee status. So we can’t do anything with him. Unless we can catch him pimping. He’s a nasty piece of work. His wife came to the hospital. Lovely woman, three kids hanging out of her. And you could see she was shit scared of him.’ Heffernan drained his glass. ‘Same again?’
McLoughlin stared balefully at his drink. Mineral water. Even the thought of it depressed him.
‘Ah, come on, Michael, have a proper drink. You’re making me feel miserable. Just the sight of your gloomy expression is enough to put me right off.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll have a bottle of lager, Heineken, Carlsberg, something like that.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’ Heffernan made a mock bow. ‘Now at least I can relax. Hey, Joe,’ he craned over the bar, ‘when you’re ready.’
He’d wanted to go home after the pub. But Heffernan insisted. He was meeting Janet for a pizza and he wanted McLoughlin to come too. He could see that they were both determined he was going to help Sally Spencer. Or was it more like a bit of middle-aged matchmaking, he wondered. Now that Heffernan and Janet were married and happy they wanted everyone else sorted out. He sat in the restaurant and listened while they laughed and joked and enjoyed each other’s company. He was pleased for Tony. He deserved it. He’d suffered for years under the yoke of a dreadful marriage to the vindictive cow who was his first wife. He’d seen his kids go through hell. He’d lost touch with them for long periods, but somehow this marriage had made it better for them all. They’d even been on holidays together. They had the photos to prove it.
I Saw You Page 3
