‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for not phoning ahead. I was in the area and I thought I’d chance my arm. I was actually looking for Dominic de Paor. I thought he might be here. Do you know him?’
‘He’s my son. I’m Helena de Paor.’ She leaned down and laid a hand on the dog’s heavy collar.
‘Your son? Oh, of course.’ He glanced at her. He could see the resemblance. ‘And is he around?’
‘No. He lives in the city. He only comes at weekends. Unfortunately. He misses out on so much.’ She waved her arm in a semicircle that took in the lake, the woods and now the house.
‘Wow.’ McLoughlin stopped. ‘How beautiful.’
It wasn’t very big, or very grand, but it was very lovely. Two storeys, long and low, painted a pale washed pink. A slate roof, shades of grey and purple. A smooth green lawn running to the margin of the lake. A cluster of trees, more beeches, he thought, to one side, and between the road and the house, a field. And in the field, the herd of deer. Thirty or forty, at least. They stared at the intruders, so still they could have been a photograph. He drew in his breath. The dog was still too.
‘Good boy . . . there’s a good boy.’ Her voice was low and soothing. The dog whined and licked his pink lips as the deer stared, motionless, then suddenly, like a knot of starlings in an autumn sky, wheeled and scattered, reaching the trees and disappearing.
‘Wow.’ McLoughlin whistled. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’
‘Haven’t you?’ She let go of the dog’s collar. He trotted forward and stood with his nose outstretched, nostrils flaring. ‘You’ll find lots of surprises here.’ Helena started walking again. ‘Now,’ she looked over her shoulder, ‘I don’t know about you but I could do with a drink.’
She brought him through a cobbled yard with a barn and a couple of looseboxes, opened a door and led him into a small room. A row of coats was hanging from hooks on the wall, boots lined up beneath. There was a rack of fishing rods and a shelf stacked with reels, hooks and boxes of flies. A long glass-doored cabinet held guns. McLoughlin peered at them. Two shotguns and three rifles. A Sauer 243. Perfect for deer. ‘They’re my son’s. He’s a very good shot.’ Helena prised off her boots and placed them neatly with the others. ‘He does the cull every couple of years. The deer have no natural predators so they have to be controlled. The old, lame, sick. Makes you think. The same should happen to people.’
The walls were covered with framed photographs. Men with fishing rods. Men with guns. At least three generations. Moustaches and whiskers in the earlier ones. And in the more recent photographs McLoughlin recognized James de Paor, standing knee deep in a river, a huge fish, a salmon, hanging from a gaff. And beside him a small boy, thick wavy black hair and a broad grin. ‘So, hunting’s in the family, I see.’ He gestured towards the gun cabinet.
‘Yes. James taught Dominic to shoot when he was very young. I used to shoot too, but I don’t any longer. My hands aren’t as steady as they once were. Come on. This way.’
She pushed open the door and ushered him into a large kitchen. It had the air of a traditional farmhouse, but McLoughlin noticed that no expense had been spared on fittings and appliances. They were all new and state-of-the-art. Helena poured a glass of Bushmills for herself and waved the bottle in his direction. He shook his head. ‘Driving.’ He smiled with what he hoped was a rueful expression.
‘Don’t you mean “on duty”? Isn’t that what they always say in the movies?’ She sat back in a large wicker chair, one long leg draped over its arm. The dog slumped at her feet. To the casual observer the animal might have been asleep, but McLoughlin noticed that whenever he moved, its eyelids flicked open and the amber stare instantly locked on to his face. It made him feel intensely uncomfortable. He’d done the regulation dog training course at Templemore, even worked for a while in the drugs squad with a dog team, but this dog was different. There was something about the ridge of muscle under the thick ruff that made his palms sweat.
‘You like my dog?’ Helena let her fingers trail in front of its nose. The dog’s tongue touched them delicately.
‘I’m more of a cat person,’ McLoughlin said, ‘but I’d have to admit that he’s a beauty. Although I’d also have to say that I’m glad you were with him when we met out there by the lake. I don’t think he’d have been that friendly if I’d been on my own.’
She smiled, and her lips slid back over her teeth. Dog and mistress, the image of each other. ‘Now, you were telling me. Suicides, that’s your interest. And you came here because of the suicide of Marina Spencer. Am I right?’ She sipped her drink.
She was like the actress in that scary movie with Bette Davis, McLoughlin thought. He searched for the name. Joan Crawford, that was who it was, with her curves and her red mouth and her hair that was just too black. One thing was certain. This woman was nothing like Sally Spencer.
‘Yes, that’s right. Marina Spencer is one of the cases that I’ve been asked to review. Just a couple of things, if that’s OK?’ He changed position. He could smell the whiskey. It was making his mouth water. ‘Were you here the night she died?’
Helena leaned back into the chair and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Was I here the night she died? Well, yes and no. Dominic wanted to take over the whole house for the party. Most of the guests were going to stay overnight, so the dog and I moved out to the cottage. It’s further down the lake, on its own. Away from here. The dog doesn’t like noise and strangers, and neither do I.’ She fixed her eyes on McLoughlin. ‘Do you, Inspector? Do you like noise and strangers and all the fuss that comes with them?’
He shrugged. ‘It depends, I suppose. I used to when I was younger, I loved that kind of party atmosphere. But now – well, a quiet pint and the Sudoku is more my kind of thing.’
‘God almighty.’ She swung her foot to the floor. ‘You make it sound so fascinating.’ She stood and refilled her glass. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
He wavered and she noticed. She handed him a glass and splashed a large measure of whiskey into it. He lifted it to his lips.
‘Good. Drinking on my own makes me nervous. Now,’ she sat down again, ‘I was here the night Marina Spencer died. I stayed in the cottage, just me and the dog. We got up early, as is our habit. We went out to have our early-morning swim and walked around the lake. It was a very beautiful morning. We saw some interesting sights. A number of people asleep in the bracken. Men and women, boys and girls. We kept on walking, the dog and I, close to the water, which is what we like. First of all we saw the dinghy. There’s a little harbour at the far end of the lake, the cuan, my late husband called it. And that’s where I saw the dinghy. I was surprised by that because I had last seen it tied up at the jetty.’
‘And the jetty is where?’
She waved an arm. ‘Down at the beach. You can see it from the front of the house. Anyway, we stopped and had a look at the dinghy. We thought it must have got free from its mooring and drifted out there. I tied it to one of the rings. And then the dog began to sniff the air.’ As she spoke, the animal raised its head, then rested its nose on her leg. ‘He looked at me, then he turned away from the boat. The water flows from the lake, over the little rapids and into the bog. It tumbles over the stones. It foams and froths. Sometimes when it has been raining heavily it rushes and pours. But it had been very dry for the couple of weeks before, so the flow was slower, more sluggish.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact. She sounded as if she was reading from a prepared script. ‘The dog moved slowly towards the rocks. I followed him. He stopped. I stopped. Then he began to howl. I couldn’t see why until I went closer to the water. The woman was lying face down. Her dress was pulled up around her waist and she was wearing a red thong. Her body was very white. Her hair was very dark.’ She stopped speaking. It was very quiet. The dog stood, lifted a heavy paw and placed it on her thigh. She lowered her face and it touched her nose. Its nostrils dilated as it sucked in her scent.
‘Did you know who the woman was?’ McLoughlin
sipped his drink cautiously.
‘Yes, I did. I had seen her earlier that evening when she arrived with Mark Porter. The dog had seen her too.’ It lay down at her feet. Its eyes were wide.
‘So you knew who she was?’
‘Of course I did.’ Her voice rose with indignation. ‘I knew she was Marina Spencer. The daughter of that woman who took my husband’s love from me.’ She stood up and finished her whiskey. ‘OK, that’s enough now. I want you to go. I’ve nothing more to say to you.’ The dog stood too and leaned against her leg.
McLoughlin got up. He held out a hand towards her. The dog made a sound in its throat. Not quite a growl, but almost. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to. Of course it must have been dreadful to see her like that. You never get used to seeing death. I know. In my job it’s an occupational hazard, but it’s always a shock.’ He tried to sound sympathetic.
But she shook her head. ‘You misunderstand me.’ Her mouth twisted into a distorted smile. ‘I wasn’t upset. I was delighted. At last she had got what she deserved. Because of her and her family James drowned. Because of her and her family I was humiliated, belittled, treated like scum. My son’s future was threatened. Because of her and her mother we were outcasts. So all I could feel was joy. Unconfined.’ She laughed. A bray of pure triumph. She laid a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers dug into his bones. She moved closer. He could smell the whiskey on her breath and a faint sweaty scent that rose up from between her breasts. ‘Dead. She’s dead. And I and mine are alive.’ Her voice reached a crescendo. Her eyes gleamed and droplets of saliva gathered in the corners of her mouth as she repeated the words. She put her other hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer. Then there was the sound of a voice shouting in the hall, running footsteps, the kitchen door thrown back. And a man whom McLoughlin recognized. Tall, dark, broad, with her features – her mouth, her eyes, her nose, her stance. Grabbing hold of her, pulling her away, as the dog pranced and yelped, his thick tail wagging, claws scraping on the tiled floor.
‘Who the fuck are you and what do you think you’re doing here?’ Dominic de Paor’s voice was angry, aggressive. ‘You have no right to be here. You were not given permission to come on to this estate. Now, get out before I call the police. My mother isn’t well. Do you hear me? For your own sake, get out of here now.’ He turned back to his mother, holding her tightly, as the dog snarled at McLoughlin, the ruff standing up around its neck and its lips drawn back from his long yellow teeth.
McLoughlin walked quickly from the house. Two men lounged around an old Hiace van, parked beside a new BMW soft-top. One grinned as McLoughlin passed and tipped his forehead with a finger. ‘The way out is thataway.’ His drawl was more Texan than Wicklow. He cocked his hand into the shape of a gun, ‘Bang-bang, you’re dead,’ he said, and the other man sniggered.
McLoughlin didn’t look back as he took the drive at a steady pace. Just as he reached the boundary fence he glanced behind. As far as he could see he was on his own. He paused for a moment, then turned into the wood. He moved with more assurance now, his footing more secure, as he hurried down the slope towards the water. The trees had given way to rough scrubland, punctuated with rocks. He followed the outline of a path, picking his way carefully. And saw a small two-storey house with a garden back and front, a high hedge around it. And, below, the little harbour that Helena had described. Big enough to shelter a dinghy or a couple of canoes. Or, as now, two traditional currachs, tied together, rocking in the little waves.
He could just distinguish the house from where he was, tucked neatly into the grove of trees at the far end of the water. He moved away from the harbour. And saw the tumble of rocks that marked where the stream ran from the lake. The water level was low now, the boulders exposed. He could see Marina Spencer lying face down in the water. He could see her as the Garda photographer had seen her: her skin white against the rocks, her skirt pulled up revealing her underwear, her bare feet, her toenails painted a vivid red, her hands clenched as if she was trying to hold on to something, to save herself, and her face, turned to one side, a large bruise on her forehead. Happened before she died, Johnny Harris had said. Must have banged it on a rock as the water carried her down into the stream.
‘Marina . . . Marina,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me, Marina. What were you doing here? Why did you come to this place? What was going on?’
A cloud passed over the sun and it was suddenly dark. The bare rock wall that faced him was cold and forbidding. And as he turned towards the trees he felt threatened and vulnerable. He began to hurry, his feet catching in the rough grass and tripping over the rocks as he made his way towards the boundary fence. Then he heard barking, looked back and saw the dog, nose down, tail up. He began to run, scrambling up the slope, trying not to panic, as the barking got louder and louder. The breath was burning in his chest now and his calf muscles were screaming at him to stop, but he kept going, forcing himself up the hill until he saw, by the gate, the wall and flung himself at it, dragging his body up, on to the top and over, collapsing, panting, gasping for breath on the ground. He lay for a few moments, the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes and soaking through his shirt. Then he pulled himself up and looked back through the gate. And saw the dog, the growl lifting its lips, saliva dripping on to the ground. And heard the whistle, insistent, repeated, and the dog, stepping back slowly, pace by pace, then breaking into a run as it disappeared down the hill.
NINETEEN
The penne swirled in the salted water. It was just short of boiling. McLoughlin opened the fridge and took out a large hunk of Pecorino cheese. He cut off a few thick slices and laid them on a plate. Then he opened a jar of West Cork honey. He dipped a dessert spoon into it and held it high, letting it dribble slowly off the spoon and on to the cheese. Then he sat down at the table and cut the cheese into bite-size pieces. He began to eat.
He’d first eaten cheese like this years ago. He’d gone to a conference on immigration, which had been held in Siena. One of the Italian cops attending had taken pity on him and invited him home to meet his wife. Elizabetta di Luca had patted him on the shoulder as she placed the plate of cheese and honey in front of him.
‘Mangia,’ she had said, and smiled broadly. ‘Delizioso.’
Go ahead.’ Her husband cut off a piece. ‘She’s right. It is delicious.’ He remembered that he had wondered if this was some kind of Italian mickey-taking. But one taste was all it took. It was delicious.
He finished his cheese and got up. He checked the pasta. It was perfectly al dente. He lifted it from the stove and drained it into a colander in the sink. He tipped it back into the pan and added a large knob of butter, stirring it until it gleamed in a way that made his mouth water. He quickly grated some Parmesan and sprinkled it into the pasta, then seized the peppermill and gave it a few good twists. He mixed it together, then poured it into a bowl. He cut two large slices of bread, then carried the lot outside to the terrace. The garden table was already set with a knife and fork, a small dish of salt and a half-full glass of wine. He sat down. ‘Buon appetito, Elizabetta,’ he said, and dug in his fork.
He finished his dinner, poured himself another glass of wine and leaned back. He closed his eyes and slept suddenly, his head drooping sideways. He was dreaming about Marina. She was sitting in the boat. She picked up the oars and began to row. The boat moved quickly over the water. Moonlight brightened the lake. Silver droplets flew from the blades. He could see the light from a fire among the trees. Its reflection rippled in the wake of the boat. And the dog’s head broke through the surface of the water. He could see Marina reflected in its eyes. She was lifting a bottle to her mouth. He could see her throat, her larynx moving up and down. The dog turned to look at him. Helena was standing in the water too. Her body was wet and sleek, like that of a large seal. She leaned down towards him and he could see her hands. They were strong and white, the nails red and shiny. She put her lips to his ear. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Look what I’ve foun
d.’ He could feel her breath on his cheek, his head turning slowly, very slowly, and he knew he was going to have to look. But he didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to.
He woke, heart pounding, sweat dripping from his forehead. He picked up his glass and drank. He waited for his heart to slow, for the dream to seep away. Then he gathered up his dishes and went into the kitchen.
He turned on the tap and washed them, then dried his hands. He was tired. No wonder he had slept like that. No wonder he had dreamed like that. He put his hand into his pocket and found his wallet. He took out the scrap of paper on which Sally had written her son’s email address. He would write to him now. Maybe Tom Spencer could help him. Because McLoughlin could not figure it out. He reached for the wine bottle. And the phone rang. He recognized the voice immediately. It was Finney, or Chief Superintendent Finney, as he knew he should remember to call him.
‘Oh, hallo, how are you?’ He tried to sound friendly, but Finney’s tone did not accord. ‘Hey, hold on a minute.’ He cut through the hostile barrage. ‘You might not have noticed but I’m not a guard any longer. I don’t work for you or anyone like you.’
‘No, you don’t, you fucking arsehole. And if you did, you’d be finished.’ Finney’s voice was high-pitched. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from the commissioner. Apparently someone has been doing the rounds pretending they’re on some kind of secret mission researching suicides and the guards’ response to them. And you’ll never guess who that someone is.’ There was silence. Then Finney started again. ‘I always thought you had a few screws loose, but this beats it all. You’ve pissed off some people with friends in high places. I don’t know what you’re after but if I hear you’ve been misrepresenting yourself again you’ll be in big trouble. So back off. Do you hear me? Back off.’
I Saw You Page 18
