I Saw You

by Julie Parsons

  There was nothing more to say. McLoughlin put down the phone. His hands were trembling. He was making a mess of everything. He was retired now. He shouldn’t be doing any of this. He should be outside in the sunshine, thinking about his future. He picked up the phone again and found Paul Brady’s number. He waited for him to answer. He left a message. ‘Hi, Paul, it’s Michael McLoughlin. I’m just wondering about the trip. Is there any news? If not, can you let me know as I’d like to sort out something else? Thanks very much. Talk to you soon.’

  He walked back into the sitting room and sat down at the computer. He smoothed out the scrap of paper with Tom Spencer’s email address. The aid agency he worked for was called Help in Africa. He typed the name into the Google dialogue box and waited for a response. He clicked on the Help in Africa website. It wasn’t hard to find Spencer. He featured in a number of the photographs. Tall and graceful, bright blue eyes in a tanned face, faded denims worn with casual elegance. McLoughlin typed in Spencer’s email address and began to write. When he had finished he pressed send. Then he went through the kitchen and out on to the terrace. It was still light but the city below was beginning to glow with its reds, oranges and yellows. McLoughlin sat down and watched. The colour in the sky was fading. The moon hung above him, its broad silver face shining. He was overwhelmed with sadness. Sadness for himself, sadness for Sally, sadness for Marina. Why could he not work out what had happened to her? The messages on her phone said, ‘I saw you.’ The photographs had ‘I saw you’ written on them. So, someone had spied on her, taken pictures of her. So what? She could have gone to the police. She could have put up curtains or blinds. She could have taken all kinds of security measures to make sure it didn’t happen again. She had bullied Mark Porter so badly that he had tried to kill himself. She had paid a heavy price for that. And then, recently, she had become friendly with him. She had gone out with him. She had brought him home. She had gone to the party at the Lake House, a place of sadness. She had witnessed her step-father’s death on that same lake. She had sat in the dinghy and seen him drown. Was it the same dinghy, McLoughlin wondered, as the one she had rowed out on to the lake that night last month? And what had happened at that party? She had drunk the equivalent of three-quarters of a bottle of vodka. She had taken cocaine and LSD. No one in their right mind would have done that, then got into a boat. What had made her do it? He shivered. It was dark now, dark in his garden, dark around his house.

  He got up and went inside. He walked through to the sitting room. He pulled open the cardboard flaps of one of Marina’s boxes and scrabbled around until his fingers felt the cold hard plastic of her phone. He switched it on and tapped in her PIN. He scrolled through the menu looking for call register. He clicked on received calls. One number was repeated five times. He clicked to dialled numbers. The same number was repeated six times. He took a deep breath and pressed the green button. The number rang and rang, then clicked to voicemail. He recognized the voice on the recorded message. He had heard it a few hours ago in the kitchen at the Lake House.

  ‘This is Dominic de Paor. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.’

  McLoughlin dropped the phone as if it had suddenly become red hot. It lay on the floor, silent. He leaned down and picked it up again. He rechecked the call register and made a note of the dates and times of the calls. The day before the party de Paor had phoned her five times and she had phoned him six times. McLoughlin pulled some of the files out of the box. He flicked through them until he found her phone bills. He scanned the itemized list. And found the same number. In the month before Marina died, she and de Paor had been in constant contact. He thought back over what he knew about their relationship. Sally had told him they had got on reasonably well until she married James. But then it had all got very difficult. Dominic had teased and bullied Marina. Isobel Watson had said that Marina had been able to stand up to him. But when they came back to school after James had died their relationship had changed. She was cowed by him, scared of him. So why was she phoning him now?

  He picked up his own phone and called Tony Heffernan.

  ‘Hi, Michael, what’s up?’ Heffernan sounded happy, light-hearted.

  ‘Tony, listen, I need you to do something for me. It’s about Marina Spencer.’ He told Tony he needed a list of the people who were at the party that night. Brian Dooley would have it. He also wanted whatever statements had been taken.

  ‘One of the guests was called Mark Porter. You’ve probably heard Sally talk about him. And I know the names of some of the others. Rosie Webb, Sophie Fitzgerald, Dominic de Paor and his wife, Gilly. If you could get me the other names I think it would be helpful, and particularly their whereabouts when Marina’s body was found.’

  ‘You don’t want much, do you?’ Heffernan sounded incredulous. ‘I can’t get all that.’

  ‘Tony, you got me into this. I don’t have the time and energy to do all the legwork. At the very least I need to know who was there. You know Dooley. You’ll come up with some plausible excuse.’ McLoughlin could imagine the look on the other man’s face.

  ‘Does this mean you think there was something funny about Marina’s death?’ Heffernan sounded excited.

  ‘I don’t know. But they’re an odd lot, those people. And another thing. Does Janet know anything about James de Paor’s first wife? Is she nuts or what? And the court case over the divorce, what was that about?’

  ‘Don’t you remember, Michael? It was a big deal. It was in all the papers. A huge scandal. I’d been thinking I might go the English-divorce route myself, but after that I thought again.’ Heffernan sounded rueful now. ‘Do you have access to the Irish Times archive? You’ll read about it there, I’m pretty sure. If not, I’ll check tomorrow at work and email you whatever I can find.’

  ‘And the other stuff? Will you get me that?’ McLoughlin wasn’t letting him off that lightly.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get back to you tomorrow, Michael. And thanks. Janet was talking to Sally yesterday and she says she’s much more cheerful.’

  Nothing to do with me, McLoughlin thought, as he sat down at the computer again. He touched the keyboard, then logged on to the Irish Times website. He put in his username and password. He typed ‘Helena de Paor’ and ‘High Court’ in the search dialogue box and waited.

  An hour later he got up from the desk. He picked up the stack of paper that had shunted from the printer and carried it into the kitchen where he laid it on the table. He was hungry again. He cut a couple of slices of bread and opened the fridge. He wanted olives, salami and goat’s cheese. He spread his booty on a plate and sat down, cutting off chunks of the cheese and the sausage and eating them quickly. It all tasted so good. He spread out the pages. He was beginning to understand. The anger, the hatred, the desire for revenge. The black-and-white newspaper photographs were grainy and smudged, but Helena de Paor’s beauty was unmistakable. She stood out from everyone else. She looked triumphant, magnificent. Sally, on the other hand, was small and insignificant. Pale and wan. And it wasn’t just the photographs that held his interest. The details of the case were extraordinary. James de Paor had done what many people in his situation did in the days before divorce was legal in Ireland. He had applied for divorce in England. He had faked his domicile. He had persuaded Helena to agree to a settlement. They had agreed to joint custody of Dominic. She had received a more than generous allowance and a house in Foxrock. He had then married Sally in London. But after his death Helena had challenged the legality of the divorce and, of course, the subsequent marriage. And she had won.

  She had issued a statement that she had read standing on the steps of the Four Courts. She was dressed in black. She had long hair in those days. It was tied back from her face. He could hear her voice in the printed words on the page.

  ‘I have been vindicated. My husband tried to deny me, deny my rightful place in the world, take my son from me, take away my rights to his property. When we got married we made a promise, a vow, an o
ath before God. We said that nothing would ever part us, nothing but death. My husband tried to break his vow, to despoil our marriage. We are parted now. But only by death. I hope that no other woman will ever have to suffer what I have suffered. Will ever have to struggle in the way that I have struggled. But now I want to give thanks. To the Irish state and its constitution, which has upheld and vindicated my rights, and to God, who has stood by me and my family in our hour of need.’

  ‘Wow.’ McLoughlin whistled and sat back in his chair, a hunk of bread and a piece of salami poised in mid-air. ‘Well, fair play to you, that’s all I can say.’ He filled his glass with wine. ‘Here’s to you, Mrs de Paor. You’re a class act.’

  He drank it and stood up. He picked up his dishes and dumped them in the sink. It was late. Just after half past one, according to the clock on the wall. As he turned towards the door his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket.

  ‘Hey Tony,’ his tone was admiring, ‘that was quick. I knew you were good, but not that good.’

  ‘Michael, something else has happened. One of the people you mentioned. It was Mark Porter, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. What about him?’

  ‘Well,’ McLoughlin heard the sharp intake of breath, ‘I’m in the office, catching up on a bit of paperwork, and a call’s just come in. Someone of the same name has been found dead in a house in Fitzwilliam Square. Thought you’d like to know.’

  McLoughlin leaned against the wall, then stood straight. ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Just now, fifteen minutes or so. And the person who made the call, let’s see, it was a woman. A Dr Gwen Simpson.’

  ‘Who’s on the job?’ Now McLoughlin was hurrying down the corridor, dragging on his jacket, checking his pockets for his keys.

  ‘Pat Hickey. Remember him? He’s a good guy.’

  McLoughlin switched on the alarm and locked the front door behind him. ‘Yeah, he sure is. Listen, Tony, I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Mind yourself now, OK?’

  McLoughlin got into his car and reversed out of the drive. He drove carefully through the outer suburbs towards the city centre. He was conscious that he had drunk at least three-quarters of a bottle of wine, but it was quiet now and there was no sign of the traffic police. As he turned into Fitzwilliam Square he could see the white shape of an ambulance and a cluster of Garda cars. The front door to the building stood open and a knot of men was standing together in the glow of light from the hall. He parked his car as close as possible, and walked briskly towards them. He recognized a few faces. ‘Hi, Pat, what’s the story?’ He held out his hand.

  Sergeant Pat Hickey mimed a double-take. ‘Hey, Michael McLoughlin? What brings you here?’ His round face broke into a smile.

  ‘I’m a friend of Gwen, Dr Simpson. She phoned me in a right state, so I told her to get on to you, but I said I’d come down and make sure she was all right. Where is she? Can I see her?’ He tried to sound confident, at ease.

  ‘She’s upstairs in her office. She’s pretty upset.’ Pat peered at him in the half-light. ‘Are you well in there, McLoughlin? You’re a sneaky bugger, aren’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Go on up and do your bit of hand-holding.’

  McLoughlin stepped over the threshold. Mark Porter lay face down on the limestone flags. Blood had spread from his head and was now a neatly congealed dark red puddle. McLoughlin moved a little closer. And saw the frayed rope end and the loop around his neck.

  ‘What happened? Was it suicide?’

  Hickey shrugged. ‘Looks like it. Barry,’ he indicated the uniformed guard standing by the door, ‘checked in the guy’s flat upstairs. There seems to be a note. But we won’t know for sure what happened until Harris gets himself out of bed and gets his arse down here. But . . .’ He pointed upwards. McLoughlin’s gaze followed his. A length of rope, six feet or so, swung gently in the updraught from the open door. It seemed to be tied to the banisters on the upper landing.

  Hickey’s phone rang. He snapped it open. McLoughlin moved past him and mimed going upstairs. Hickey gave him a thumb’s up.

  McLoughlin took the stairs two at a time. When he reached Gwen Simpson’s door he looked down. No one was paying any attention to him. He moved against the wall and kept going. Up the next flight of stairs, the next and the next. The door to the top flat was half open and a length of crime-scene tape was draped loosely from the handle to the banisters. He ducked beneath it and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He used it to take hold of the handle and close the door behind him. Up here, at the top of the house, the rooms were low-ceilinged. The walls were painted a rich dark red. The furniture was antique. The only concession to the twenty-first century was the Apple laptop on the large mahogany desk. McLoughlin stood in front of it. The screen was black. The desk was covered with papers. He leaned over to have a closer look. The top sheet was covered with writing, scrawled in thick black strokes across the page.

  I’ve had enough. I can’t take any more. I’ve tried to forget. I’ve tried to pretend that it never happened. But it happened then and now it’s happened again. Enough is enough.

  Beside the note was a brown padded envelope, and a small plastic CD case. Porter’s name and address were printed in black marker. There was something familiar about the writing. McLoughlin used his handkerchief again to pick it up. He pulled out a piece of paper. The words ‘We saw you’ were written on it. McLoughlin leaned towards the computer. He touched the keyboard. It did not respond. He looked for the down button and touched it. The laptop clicked, purred and came to life. A video image was frozen on the screen. A group of people around a bright fire. He clicked on the arrow and it began to play. He held his breath as he watched. Then, using his handkerchief again, he stroked the touchpad, clicking on the eject-disk symbol. With a mechanical whirr the disk slid from the slot at the side of the computer. He picked it up and slipped it into the envelope. Then he hurried back to the door. He opened it slowly, tiptoed down the stairs and heard a familiar voice. He peered over the banisters and saw Johnny Harris bending over the body. McLoughlin slipped quietly into Gwen Simpson’s office. He moved through the waiting room.

  ‘Hi, Dr Simpson, are you there?’ he called. He knocked on the door and pushed it open. She was sitting at her desk, her face milk white. She looked shocked. And worn out.

  ‘Mr McLoughlin, what are you doing here?’ Her voice was shaky.

  ‘I heard what happened to Mark. I got a call from a friend.’ He waved towards the stairs. ‘I thought you might need a hand. I thought I’d see if there was anything I could do.’

  Her mouth trembled into a smile. ‘Thanks. It’s pretty awful, really. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I was here.’ She put her hands over her face. Her shoulders were shaking.

  He moved towards her. He laid a hand on the small of her back. He could feel the bones of her spine through her blouse. ‘It’s OK,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not OK.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘I feel terrible. I should be doing something. But I can’t think what.’ She raised her face. Tears were spilling from her eyes.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do. That’s the hardest thing to bear. There’s nothing you can do.’ He took her hands. They were chilled. They made him feel cold too. ‘You stay there, I’ll make some tea.’ He set off towards the waiting room. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ He closed the door behind him.

  TWENTY

  The images wouldn’t leave him. Even when he closed his eyes he could still see them. The group of people around the fire. The light flickering over their faces. And the couple on the ground. Their skin turned to gold. Bright and shiny and beautiful. But the cry that came from the open mouth. ‘No, no, no.’ The repeated cry. Until he could bear it no more.

  It had been after dawn when he got home. He had gone to make tea for Gwen Simpson and had been about to play the disk on the receptionist’s computer w
hen Pat Hickey had walked into the waiting room. Hickey jerked his head in the direction of Gwen Simpson’s office. ‘She’s in there, is she?’ He pulled his notebook from his pocket.

  ‘Yeah.’ McLoughlin stepped back from the desk. He walked ahead of Hickey and opened the door. ‘Gwen,’ his voice was soft, ‘this is Sergeant Pat Hickey. He wants to ask you a few questions. Would you like me to stay?’

  She was lying on the couch. She had kicked off her shoes. She looked small and defenceless. She sat up slowly. Her eyes were red and puffy. ‘Yes, that would be good – if that’s OK with you?’ she asked Hickey.

  He nodded. ‘Sure no problem. Now.’ He pulled one of the upright chairs towards her and sat down heavily. McLoughlin closed the door and leaned against it. ‘Tell me what happened tonight.’

  Her voice assumed its usual calm clarity. She had gone home at six, but had come back at about nine thirty. She was writing a paper for an international conference on the long-term effects of child abuse. It was easier to work in her office, she said. It was always very quiet here at night. And she had her notes to hand. She didn’t think there was anyone else in the building, certainly none of the other tenants. At about midnight she heard the front door slam. She went out on to the landing and saw Mark Porter in the hall. He came up the stairs towards her and they had a bit of chat as he took off his motorbike helmet.

  ‘How did he seem?’ Hickey lifted his head from his notebook.

  She made a little face. ‘The way he always seemed. He was a funny mixture of shyness and arrogance. He was always very conscious of his height. Especially, I think, around women.’

  ‘And tonight when you saw him, how was he in particular?’