‘I’m sorry, Margaret. I’ve been very selfish tonight. You must have so much of your own pain to bear and all I’ve done is go on about myself.’ She picked up her bag. Margaret leaned forward and kissed Sally’s cheek. She could feel the bone just below the surface of the skin. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll have my turn. I’m sure there’ll be a night when you won’t be able to shut me up.’
They walked upstairs together. Sally called for Vanessa, stopped her protests and opened the front door.
‘Goodnight, and thanks for a lovely evening.’ She put her arms around Margaret and hugged her. ‘Come on, Vanessa, time to go home.’
Margaret stood on the step and watched them go through the front gate. A full moon hung over the sea casting its blue light across the garden. She closed the door and walked back down the steps to the kitchen. She piled the dishes into the sink and wiped the table clean. Then she went outside. The next-door neighbours had planted jasmine against their wall. It had climbed high and was now trailing its star-shaped white flowers through one of the old apple trees. The air was filled with its heavy, luscious scent.
Margaret sat down on a deckchair. She breathed in deeply. So Michael McLoughlin was coming to see Sally tomorrow. She wondered what he looked like now, if age had been kind to him. It has not been kind to me, she thought, as she ran her hands over her forehead and down her cheeks, feeling the wrinkles, the loose skin. The jasmine was almost too much. It carried with it the odour of decay, rot, putrefaction. She closed her eyes and images crowded in. She blinked and stood up. She went back into the kitchen and up the stairs. She sat down on the rocking-chair. Rock, rock, rock, rock. The wooden runners drummed against the wooden floor. She stared out into the darkness.
EIGHTEEN
Ben Roxby, death from a fall. Marina Spencer, death by drowning. Rosie Webb, née Atkinson, sister of Poppy, death by drug overdose. McLoughlin sat down at his computer and tapped out their names on the keyboard. He highlighted and enlarged the type. Suicide or accident? Or was there some other reason? He swung around on his chair. And he wondered. Roxby’s body was found by his wife when she came home after spending the night with her mother. Rosie’s body was found by the guards when the housekeeper called them. Who had found Marina’s body? He picked up the phone and called Johnny Harris. Voicemail, as always. He left a message.
‘Johnny, just one thing I’m wondering. Who found Marina? It’ll be in the file somewhere. Could you give me a call? And while you’re at it, any more news about Rosie Webb’s death? Thanks a mill. Hope you’re well. Talk to you soon. ’Bye.’
It was lunchtime when he got to Sally Spencer’s house in Monkstown. Her scruffy little dog greeted him with a chorus of yaps and a tail that was wagging so hard it looked like it would fall off. Sally had prepared food for him. Cold meat and salad. She had laid a table in the garden. She poured him a glass of mineral water and topped it with a slice of lemon. She looked better, he thought, as if she’d had a good night’s sleep. He said as much. She smiled. ‘Yes. I did sleep well last night. For the first time since Marina died.’
‘Good. It makes such a difference, doesn’t it?’ He sipped his fizzy water.
‘Yes, but it’s not just the sleep. I had a really nice evening. Vanessa and I had dinner with a friend. Funny the way these things work out. I’d never met her before, she’s someone Vanessa’d got to know, but I was able to talk to her in a way that I haven’t been able to talk to lots of people I’ve known for years. I suppose it helps that she’s lost a daughter too. Very different circumstances, but similarities. So, it was good.’ She busied herself with the vinaigrette. She poured it over the lettuce and mixed it carefully. ‘Now, how have you been getting on?’
She listened while he talked. She didn’t interrupt. He told her about the messages on Marina’s phone and about the photographs. He told her about his visit to the school. He told her about the death of Rosie Webb, and what he knew of the death of Ben Roxby.
‘Why didn’t the police find all this out?’ She looked at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Well, it seemed very straightforward to them, I suppose. And it probably is. None of this makes Marina’s suicide seem less likely. In fact, if anything, it makes it seem more likely.’
She looked away, then back at him. ‘I had no idea she was worried about anything.’ Her voice was low and uncertain. ‘She seemed OK to me.’
‘What about this relationship with Mark Porter? Didn’t it strike you as odd, given their history?’ McLoughlin speared a small tomato with his fork.
She frowned. ‘Who told you about that?’
‘Poppy Atkinson, Rosie’s sister. And then, well, I’m afraid it’s part of Marina’s history. It’s there.’
‘It’s there, all right. Don’t think badly of her.’ Sally seemed close to tears. ‘I could never figure out what happened. It wasn’t like her. But she was very unhappy at that school. I should have realized sooner. I know I had my own misery to deal with, but I feel responsible for everything that went on there. Marina looked almost like an adult, but inside she was a child.’
McLoughlin helped himself to more salad. ‘So why the relationship with Mark? Where did that come from?’
‘It wasn’t a relationship as such, not romantic anyway. Marina had lost touch with the people from that school a long time ago. Then she’d bumped into Mark, and perhaps she felt it was time to make amends. We never really talked about it, but she seemed to like him. The one thing that was odd though, was that she went to that party. I couldn’t understand why.’
‘You knew about it before she went?’ McLoughlin rummaged through the salad, looking for a lump of feta. It was delicious.
‘I found out about it that day. I phoned her to check she was coming for lunch on Sunday, the day after. She often used to come for Sunday lunch. She was always so busy during the week that I didn’t see much of her. So I phoned her. It was about eight o’clock on the Saturday evening. When she answered, the reception was bad. I kept losing her. So I asked her where she was and she said she was up at the Lake House.’ Sally’s face was pale and tense now.
‘And you were surprised?’
‘Surprised? I was more than surprised. But before I could ask her anything about it, the signal went. I tried again and again, but it went straight to voicemail. So that was the last conversation I had with her.’ She got up from the table and went into the kitchen, the dog following closely behind. McLoughlin finished off the salad.
When she came back she was carrying a large glass of white wine. ‘Sorry.’ She tried to smile, then sat down. ‘I can’t bear to think that was the last time we spoke.’
‘The Lake House. I understand it’s very special.’ He sat back in his chair and wiped his hands on a white linen napkin.
‘It is – or it was when I used to go there – a bit dilapidated, run-down, but the place is absolutely wonderful. It has a magical quality. It’s tucked into a deep valley. The lake is a perfect oval. It’s an amazing colour. Almost brown. Bog water, you know? And there are the most beautiful trees, the most exquisite beeches. And underneath them the ground is springy with the shells of beech nuts. They call it mast, beech mast. Funny word, isn’t it? Old English, I think.’ She sipped her wine. ‘It’s just . . . I don’t know how to describe it. You’d have to go there to appreciate how beautiful it is.’ She was twiddling her wedding ring, ‘We were going to live there full time when James retired. I thought he would have been bored, that country life wouldn’t suit him, but he said all he wanted was to be with me and Vanessa and that would be enough.’ Her eyes filled with tears. She covered her face with her hands. He waited until the sobs abated. The dog whined softly.
‘Sorry.’ She bent down and scratched behind the little animal’s ears. ‘I seem to spend all my time in tears, these days. I’m sick of it. I feel so angry too. Angry with Marina. But that’s one of the reasons why I’m sure she didn’t kill herself. She would have known the effect it would have on me. And I�
��m sure she wouldn’t have wanted to hurt me like this.’
He stood up.
‘Don’t go.’ She reached out a hand as if to stop him. ‘I’m sorry – I just can’t seem to cope with anything these days. And listen, there’s something else.’
He perched on the edge of his chair. ‘Something else?’
‘After you phoned me about Marina’s house, Vanessa and I went to check it. It had been trashed. It was in a terrible state. Everything all over everywhere. We cleaned it up and I got a locksmith to come, but . . . but it hadn’t been broken into, and as far as I know the only people with keys were you, me and Mark Porter. I know Marina had given him a set.’ She drank some more of her wine. ‘Why would he do something like that?’
McLoughlin cleared his throat. ‘Anger? Grief? People do strange things in strange circumstances.’ He stood up again. ‘I don’t know him, but I thought his behaviour was very odd when I met him at the house. He was carrying on as if he was Marina’s partner. He told me he’d more or less arranged her funeral. Picked the music, that sort of thing. Is that right?’
‘You’re kidding?’ she exclaimed. ‘Vanessa and I chose the music, the readings. We went through all her CDs. Picked out her favourites.’
‘Purcell’s Dido, was that one of them?’
‘Yes, it was. It’s lovely, and there was a poem, special, for all of us. ‘Hinterhof’ by James Fenton. Do you know it?’
He shook his head. She began to speak:
‘Stay near to me and I’ll stay near to you,
As near as you are dear to me will do,
Near as the rainbow to the rain,
The west wind to the window pane,
As fire to the hearth, as dawn to—’
Her voice choked in her throat.
‘As fire to the hearth, as dawn to dew.
‘Marina really liked it and Vanessa read it at the funeral. It was fitting.’ She stroked the dog’s rough head. ‘Anyway, what’s more to say, really?’ She picked up her glass and raised it to him. ‘I’m sure you’ve other things to be doing with your day. Janet was telling me you’re off on a sailing trip. Sounds lovely.’
‘I hope so.’ He took his car keys from his pocket. ‘Just one other thing I wanted to ask you. Your son, Tom, where is he these days?’
‘In Darfur. He works for an aid agency. He came home for Marina’s funeral. I wanted him to stay but he wouldn’t. He’s dedicated to his job. Why?’
‘Nothing in particular, but do you have a contact number?’
‘Sure.’ She stood and walked back into the kitchen where she scribbled something on a scrap of paper. ‘Here, email, the best way to get in touch. They use satellite phones but they’re very unreliable.’
‘Was he close to his sister?’ he asked.
‘Close? Once they were, but they drifted apart. The way siblings do.’ She picked up one of the framed photographs on the mantelpiece and held it out to McLoughlin. ‘I wish he’d come home.’
McLoughlin took the picture. Tom Spencer was as handsome as his sister had been beautiful. He put it down on the table. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Mind yourself.’
The road to Wicklow had been widened and improved recently. The traffic was moving fast. Ahead, the Sugarloaf’s crystal summit sparkled in the sunshine. He took the exit at Kilmacanogue and slowed as he turned on to the old Roundwood road. His ears popped as he drove higher into the Wicklow hills. The countryside was beautiful. The grass was an improbable green, speckled with the white dots of grazing sheep. And beyond the dun-coloured slopes of the mountains, lowering against the blue of the summer sky. The road uncoiled in front of him. He slowed to negotiate the sharper bends. There was a surprising amount of traffic today.
Just outside the village of Roundwood there was a right turn, signposted ‘Sally Gap’. Picnickers had taken up residence on the narrow verge. Their small table was covered with a bright chequered cloth and an array of sandwiches and drinks. A little girl waved vigorously at the passing cars. He waved back. She jumped up and down, a broad grin on her cheeky little face, stuck out her tongue and waggled her fingers in her ears.
He drove slowly up towards the summit of the hill. Tall pines cast their shadow across the road. And just beyond he saw a high gate set back in the entrance to a driveway. He pulled in and stopped. The gate was locked. A keypad was set into the wall and, above it, a camera. He pressed the key that bore the symbol of a bell. He waited.
He pressed the bell again, leaned against the wall and waited. A truck passed, painted regulation khaki, two young soldiers in the cab and the shadowed shapes of others, gazing out of the open back. There were always soldiers around this part of the mountains. There was a firing range not far away. On still, windless days the boom of the guns was often heard. Now he looked up into the video-camera and smiled. ‘Come on, open up,’ he said. Still no response. He stepped away, out of the camera’s range, and to the opposite side of the gateway. A large sign, painted in dramatic red and black, stated ‘Private Property. No Entry except with Owner’s Authorization.’ But below it the wall was damaged. Some of the stones were loose and had fallen to the ground, leaving foot- and handholds. He looked around, then pulled himself over, dropped to the other side and began to walk quickly down the steep hill.
It was quiet. Silent. The lake, visible now through the trees, shining, like polished metal, a sudden shadow rushing across the surface as the wind pushed up a small shivering wave. He turned off the drive. The trees were tall and beautiful. The ground beneath his feet was springy with decades of leaf mould. And everywhere there were huge boulders, sateened with moss of the most delicate green. He stopped dead. What was that he could see between a huge beech and a Sitka spruce? He held his breath, tried not to move, and watched as the two deer, who had spotted him first, stared at him, their heads turned, their ears pricked, their bodies statue still. Then they began to walk slowly up the hill, over the road and away into the distance. He let his breath out in a rush. He’d never been so close to deer before. Now he could see their almond-shaped eyes, their mottled backs, their delicate pointed faces.
He moved away, conscious of his clumsiness as a twig snapped beneath his foot. The sound was like a fire-cracker in the absolute stillness of the wood. The slope towards the lake was steep and uneven. He scrambled over rotting logs and tumbled rocks, sat down for a moment to wipe his sweating face on his sleeve. It was surprisingly hot, even with the broad canopy of the crumpled beech leaves and the deep shadows cast by the pines, spruces and larches. Across the lake, the valley wall, bare rock, unwooded, rose steeply. A different landscape, harsh and forbidding. He knew what it would be like here in the middle of winter when the winds would scream down the hill, flailing all before them.
But today the breeze was light, southerly. He stood up and looked down through the trees to the water. Below, there was a clearing, a small flat promontory, surrounded by a group of the tallest pines. And in the middle he could see a circle of stones, blackened by fire, charred branches and beside the stones a couple of large logs pulled up, like sofas at a hearth. He scrambled down towards them, his feet slipping on the mass of needles. Here and there ferns poked their fronds towards the light. They were still fresh and green, not yet tinged with the brown decay of late summer. He reached the clearing. He squatted and stirred the heap of ash with a burned stick. Bottle tops, Heineken’s red-star logo, winked up at him, and the charred remains of foil from cigarette packets, with scattered butts and the tell-tale remnants of joints. He picked one up carefully between his fingertips and bent to sniff it. Sure enough, the pungent scent of cannabis. He sighed. And felt the cold hardness of something metallic pressing into his skull, just behind his right ear. The pressure increased. Now there was a hand on his head, forcing him to his knees. He tried to jerk away but he could feel the bite of what seemed like a gun barrel. A long time since he had felt anything like it.
Now he tried to shout: ‘Hold on, I’m a guard. I’m here on official business.
Let me up.’ But his voice was feeble.
‘A guard, is that what you are? Official business, is that what you call it? A funny way to go about it. Breaking and entering. Climbing over a wall without so much as a by-your-leave.’ And now there was a booted foot, a toe under his buttocks, pushing him so that he toppled forward and landed with his face pressed against the roughness of a fallen branch.
‘Now.’ The boot was close to his face. It was polished, brown, the leather soft and well worn. ‘You were saying?’
The figure above him seemed huge. The boots gave way to long legs with large thighs encased in whipcord jodhpurs. A solid body, big round breasts beneath a checked shirt. The rolled-up sleeves showed arms that were suntanned, with the appearance of strength. The woman seemed somehow familiar. Her hair, unnaturally black, was pushed back from a high forehead. Her face was fleshy, striking, with a jutting nose. Her dark blue eyes were accentuated with liner and her wide mouth was a vivid crimson. He noticed her fingernails. They were long, manicured and painted the same red as her mouth. She held up a walking-stick. Its tip was sheathed in metal. She examined it carefully. ‘Give you a fright, did I?’ She smiled. ‘Thought this was something else?’ She leaned down and held out her hand. ‘Enjoying yourself down there? The view OK? Or would you fancy a change?’
He allowed himself to be pulled upright. Close to, she wasn’t as formidable as she had seemed from the ground. But she was still a big woman. Roughly his height, he reckoned, and with a build to match. Not fat as such, but strong, almost muscled.
‘Now,’ her voice was amused, ‘will we start again?’
She walked him down the road towards the house. He felt foolish, embarrassed, humiliated. She struck the ground with the stick as she walked, her stride long and full of purpose. A dog had joined her. A large, lean German shepherd, with wary amber eyes and a huge mouth. Its teeth shone with a yellow gleam and its long pink tongue flopped wolf-like from side to side as it loped beside her. McLoughlin tried to explain what he wanted. He told her the ‘auditing the suicides’ version of events. She didn’t reply.
I Saw You Page 17
