‘Too bloody expensive and too slow.’ Harris climbed into the Range Rover. He pressed a button and the window slid down. ‘What is it about you straight blokes? Heterosexual relationships have got so dangerous. Don’t know what the world’s coming to.’
McLoughlin followed Harris out of the car park. He drove behind him as far as Stove Street and eventually saw him swing into his designated parking spot outside the city morgue. He was lucky. It was always a hassle going into the morgue – never anywhere to park. Especially during the week. It was easier on a Sunday. And Sunday was always a big day for bodies. It had been a Sunday, he remembered, the day he and Finney had gone to bring Margaret Mitchell to the morgue to identify her daughter’s body. It had been a hot day like this. There hadn’t been much traffic on the road into town. He remembered that Finney had been driving. He was driving fast, too fast. McLoughlin wanted to slow him down, give the woman in the back seat more time to prepare herself for what lay ahead. But there was no putting off the horror of the moment when he would pull back the sheet and reveal the child’s face to the mother. He had waited for Margaret to respond. He asked the question he had to ask.
‘Can you identify her? Can you tell us who this is?’
And Margaret had bowed her head, and said, without taking her eyes off Mary’s face for an instant, ‘This is the body of my daughter, Mary Mitchell.’
Then she had turned on him and Finney and screamed at them to get out and leave her alone with her child.
The lights turned green. He sat and stared at them until behind him the horns began to blow.
‘All right, all fucking right!’ McLoughlin shouted, as he inched forward. Ahead was the Matt Talbot bridge over the Liffey, and beyond it, the cranes on the skyline swung like old-fashioned weighing scales high above the new apartment developments. Marina Spencer had been working there, he thought, up to the time she died. He had seen the articles about her that her mother had cut from magazines and newspapers and put in the album.
He swung across the bridge and on to the quays, then turned right. A hoarding advertised the name of the development: Urban Living. He slowed to a crawl, then followed a line of trucks on to the building site. The tall central block of apartments was completed, but the other smaller buildings were still clothed in scaffolding. He bumped over the rough pot-holed ground and parked by the Portakabin that acted as a site office. Outside, the noise was deafening. Pneumatic drills, concrete-mixers and the general cacophony of modern building methods. McLoughlin ducked into the office. A young woman was seated behind a desk covered with piles of paper. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘You want?’ Her accent was east European.
‘Perhaps you can help me. I’m wondering where Marina Spencer’s office was?’
‘Why you ask? Marina is gone. She is dead, you know.’
‘I know.’ McLoughlin leaned his two fists on the desk. ‘I know that. I’m a policeman, investigating her death. I wanted to take a look at her office.’
‘A policeman, a Garda Síochána.’ Her pronunciation was impeccable. ‘The police they have been here already, few weeks back.’
‘That’s right.’ McLoughlin felt in his jacket pocket for his wallet. ‘I’m doing follow-up work. Tying up loose ends, you understand.’ He held out his ID card.
Her eyes flicked across it, then back to his face. ‘OK, you go to the apartments. You see sign for Inner Vision design company. They are on tenth floor. You go there, you find Becky Heron. She Marina’s assistant. You ask her.’
It was as the woman had said. He followed the signs and took the lift to the tenth floor. As the doors opened he could hear the sound of a radio, the clatter and bang of workmen out of sight down the corridor. He walked towards the sound. And saw an open door and smelt fresh coffee. And heard a voice, saying, ‘Come on in, the water’s lovely.’
The girl holding the glass pot in her hand swung towards him, an expectant smile on her face. ‘Oh.’ The smile faded. She put the pot on a long trestle table which was strewn with swatches of fabric, rolls of wallpaper, piles of cushions and a haphazard collection of ceramic tiles. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ She squared her shoulders, the smile replaced by a look almost of reproach. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I was told I’d find a Becky here.’ He felt like helping himself to a cup, the smell was so good.
‘I’m Becky Heron. And you are?’ Her tone was cool. She lifted her mug and took a sip. She was small and very pretty with blonde hair in a long plait that flopped over one shoulder. He tried not to stare at her naked stomach, decorated with a tattooed butterfly that disappeared below the waistband of her low-cut jeans.
‘My name is Michael McLoughlin. Sally Spencer, Marina Spencer’s mother, asked me to look into her daughter’s, um, death. I just wanted to talk to you a bit about Marina and her work.’
‘And what are you exactly?’
He could feel his self-esteem shrivelling beneath her supercilious gaze. ‘Well, let’s say that I know my way around the investigation of a suspicious death.’ He took a step forward. ‘Any chance of a cup of that? It smells fantastic. What kind of coffee is it?’
‘Marina’s favourite Colombian. She’d been to one of the plantations where it’s grown. She has a friend out there still. He sends her packets of his special coffee from time to time.’ Becky’s lips quivered. She sat down on a high stool. ‘I miss her so much. I can’t believe she’s dead. I keep expecting her to walk in. Every time I hear the lift doors open I think it’s her. That’s why I said that, about the water being lovely. She always used to say that when we heard people in the corridor.’
‘Had you known her for long?’ McLoughlin moved aside a pile of brocade cushions and put down his mug.
Becky shrugged. ‘A year or so. I came here to do work experience after I left school. And I just kind of stayed. We got on great.’
‘So how was she before she died? Did she seem depressed, upset, worried about anything?’ He held out his mug for a refill.
‘Not depressed. She’d get stressed, all right. This was a very big job and the developers are a right pain. She was a bit frantic, the last while. There was all that trouble over the vandalism in River View just as the apartments were being sold.’
‘Vandalism? What was that?’ McLoughlin sipped his coffee. He could feel the caffeine vibrating through his system.
‘You know River View – just east of the Custom House? They were the first of the really flash apartments. Marina had just finished the show penthouses. They were absolutely gorgeous. And then some gurriers got in and splashed paint over everything. She was really upset. She had to call the painters back and get them to work through the weekend to clean it up. It was a nightmare.’ Becky smiled. ‘A real nightmare, but we had ways of dealing with it. When she’d finished it was late and she called me and asked if I was on for a stress-buster.’
‘What was that?’
‘It was Marina’s way of getting rid of all the shit. We’d go dancing. Marina was a mad dancer.’ Becky’s eyes filled with tears. ‘We had such a great time that night.’
McLoughlin waited for the sobbing to die down. He took out his handkerchief and passed it across the table.
‘Sorry.’ She sniffed loudly, then blew her nose. ‘Sorry. I just really miss her. I can’t believe she’s dead. Even though . . .’ she hesitated, ‘. . . even though I saw her, you know, in the coffin. I’d never seen a dead person before.’ She closed her eyes as if to take away the sight.
‘And how was it?’
‘It was weird. She wasn’t like herself. And there were all these people there I’d never heard of. And that guy was there, Mark Porter. He was carrying on as if he was her husband or something, but he wasn’t. He barely knew her.’ Becky’s face was flushed now. Indignation had cut through her sorrow.
‘Mark Porter, and he would be who?’
‘He was this guy she’d started seeing again. They’d gone to school together or something. He was kind of weird-looking.
Very small, but huge muscles. Like a kind of mini Incredible Hulk. I called him the Hulkette. We used to have a giggle about it. Although she was always saying we shouldn’t be cruel, that Mark had been through enough in his life. I could never figure out what Marina was doing with him.’ And the tears came again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know why I’m crying so much. I should be getting over it by now.’
‘There’s no should about it,’ he said. ‘Grief is a funny thing. It comes and goes and then one day it doesn’t come any more. Which doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten the person, just that you can get on with your own life again. But you can’t control grief. It will control you for as long as it wants. Best get used to the idea.’
It was easy to be wise when the grief wasn’t your own, McLoughlin thought, as he walked towards his car. Becky’s coffee was thrumming through his veins and his head and he felt slightly sick. He got into the driver’s seat and pulled out his notebook. He should write it all down while the memories were fresh. Marina was stressed about work. But nothing out of the ordinary. She had told Becky about being invited to the party in the Lake House. She had said, according to Becky, that she was dreading going. That she had nothing but bad memories of the place. That she had never got on with her step-brother. So why go? Becky had said. And Marina had said it was because of Mark Porter. He really wanted her to go. He’d said all kinds of people would be there, people who would be useful for her business with big houses and money, the kind who were always redecorating, looking for new projects.
‘I didn’t understand it, really,’ Becky had continued. ‘She didn’t need more work. She had as much as she could manage already. She’d just signed a contract with the same developers to do another complex out in Greystones.’
‘So was she in love with this guy, this Mark? Was that it?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Becky shook her head. ‘It wasn’t love or even sex or anything like that. I think it was guilt.’
‘Over what?’
‘She never really said. She started to tell me something about some stuff that went on at school. They all went to the same posh boarding-school. But then we got interrupted, and when I asked her about it later she said it was nothing and changed the subject.’
Not much to be going on with, McLoughlin thought, as he put away his pen and shoved his notebook back into his pocket. Except that he had managed to get hold of Marina’s Filofax. It was sitting on the table right by his coffee mug. He hadn’t beaten about the bush. He’d asked Becky straight out if he could have a look at it, and she’d said to take it.
McLoughlin smiled as he picked it up. ‘Thanks, but are you sure you won’t need it for the business?’
‘It doesn’t matter any longer.’ Becky’s face clouded. ‘Actually, you’re lucky you found me here. Today’s my last day. I’m clearing things up. The developers have got a new company to take over.’ She sniffed and pointed to a pile of cardboard boxes by the door. ‘That’s Marina’s work stuff. Her reference books, her contact files, her list of who’s who and what’s what. I’m not sure what to do with it. You take it, if you like.’
McLoughlin lifted his head from his notebook. A man in overalls was wheeling a trolley with the boxes stacked on it towards him. He got out of the car, went around to the back and opened the boot. ‘In here, if you can manage,’ he called, then stood back and watched as the man stacked the boxes neatly inside. McLoughlin slammed the lid and got back into the car. He’d take them all home with him, and when he was finished he’d deliver them to Sally.
He drove slowly across the rutted surface of the building site and out on to the road. As he stopped at the traffic-lights his phone rang.
‘Hey, Paul, how’s it going? When are we off?’
The news was not good. The wife of the boat owner had sprained her ankle. The trip was on hold.
‘Shit, that’s a pity. I was really looking forward to Brittany.’ He slowed to take a corner. ‘Anything else in the offing? I could do with something to occupy my time.’
But Paul Brady was noncommittal. He’d keep in touch and if anything else came up he’d be sure to let him know. McLoughlin disconnected the call and dropped his phone on the passenger seat. Oh, well, nothing he could do about it. He’d head for home. He’d a night’s reading ahead of him. Keep his mind off his own problems, his own regrets, his own sadness. For just a while.
TEN
Flour, warm water, salt, sugar, yeast. Dough between McLoughlin’s fingers, around the nails, sticking to his palms. He dumped the dough on to the floured board to be kneaded. Stretched, pulled out, then turned over, pressing down with the heel of the hand. Turn the dough clockwise. Pull, stretch, press, turn. Establish a rhythm. Feel the dough come together. Smooth and elastic. Then put it into a greased tin. Cover it with oiled clingfilm. Leave it. And wait. For the transformation to take place. For the yeast to work its magic. For the separate ingredients – flour, warm water, salt, sugar, yeast – to become one.
The appointments were for Monday mornings at nine a.m. They were written in red capital letters, with a red box drawn around them. The first one was for 10 January 2005 and she had written them down, into the future, right up until 19 December. The pages of her diary were stiff with ink, every scrap of paper covered with names, dates, phone numbers, email addresses, doodles, jottings. Until 21 June, the night she’d died. After that the pages were virtually unmarked, except for the appointments in red. The name written was Simpson. No first name, no title, no phone number or address. McLoughlin flicked through Marina’s Filofax to the address-book section. He opened the page at the S flap. He ran his eye down the list of names. Marina’s handwriting was neat, precise and legible. But there was no Simpson.
He got up from the table and walked out into the hall. The large brown-leather bag was where he had left it, in the jumble of umbrellas and boots beneath the coat-stand behind the door. He picked it up and walked back into the kitchen, rummaging among its contents. He pulled out a mobile phone. The screen was blank, the battery dead. It was a Nokia, the same brand as his own. He plugged it into his charger and waited. After a few seconds it beeped and glowed, then darkened again. He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Erdinger, he flipped off the cap and poured it into his glass. Then he went through into the sitting room. Marina’s boxes were waiting. He sat down on the sofa, took a deep swallow of his beer, then untucked the flaps of the nearest one. Plenty to keep him busy until Marina’s phone came back to life.
It was late by the time he’d finished. He sat back on his heels and surveyed the scene. There was a large pile of books. Heavy hardbacks. Brightly coloured. Another of the boxes had drawing-books filled with sketches. Birds, cats, dogs, trees, houses. People too. There were drawings of her mother. And a girl with sleek brown hair and almond-shaped eyes. She reminded him of someone, and of course it came to him: she was very like James de Paor. Must be the child, he thought, as he leafed through the rest of the books, the child who was born to Sally and James.
At the bottom of one of the boxes a large padded envelope was addressed to Marina, and unopened. He ripped the flap. The scent of coffee filled the room. Inside was a brown-paper bag. He took it out, holding it with both hands. He ran his thumbs across the heavy paper. And felt something else inside. He opened it carefully. The coffee smell was overpowering. He took it into the kitchen and emptied it into a bowl. And saw the small plastic bags, the powdery substance they contained white against the coffee’s dark brown grains. He got a serving spoon and fished them out. There were five in all. He unsealed one, licked a finger and stuck it in. The white powder coated his skin. He put it up to his mouth and touched it with his tongue. There was a sudden and unmistakable sensation of numbness. He walked into the kitchen and turned on the tap, held his hand underneath the stream of water and washed it thoroughly. A present from her friend at the coffee plantation in the hills above Medellín, no doubt. Some for herself and some for sale. A nice little sid
eline. No wonder she was such a good dancer on her nights at the club with Becky.
He poured the coffee into a Kilner jar and clicked the top firmly shut. He picked up the rest of the bags and put them into the freezer compartment of his fridge, then looked at the dough. It had risen way above the top of the tin. He could smell the yeast. He dumped it out of the tin on to the floured board. He balled his fist and banged it down hard on the dough. The air pushed out of it with a sigh. He put it back into the tin to wait for its second rising. Then took another bottle of beer out of the fridge. He opened it and walked into the sitting room.
The last box was filled with papers and letters. And underneath them all, another brown envelope: A4 with a stiffened back. ‘PHOTOGRAPHS DO NOT BEND’ was written across the front beneath a label on which her name and address were printed. The flap was torn open, but tucked back inside. He pulled it free and slid out the contents. And rocked back on his heels with surprise. There were five large black-and-white photographs. He spread them on the floor. They all showed variations of the same scene: a woman at different stages of undress. The first showed her wearing jeans but no blouse or sweater. In the second she was in her bra and pants. Then came a huge close-up of her bare breasts. In the next she was naked. Her face was out of focus, but from her colouring and the general shape of her body it was clear that it was Marina. McLoughlin turned over the photographs. Each bore a small sticker, the kind that would usually give the name of the photographer. But these did not. He read the words out loud. ‘I saw you,’ he said, then repeated, ‘I saw you.’
That was all.
McLoughlin picked up the envelope again. There was no stamp, no postmark, just the label with Marina’s name and home address. He looked again at each of the photographs. They were taken from an angle that suggested the camera had been placed above the woman. They were not posed. She had not known what was happening. McLoughlin had seen enough clandestine photography in his time in the Gardaí to grasp that. ‘A fucking peeping Tom,’ he muttered, as he stood up, stretched and moved back into the kitchen.
I Saw You Page 7
