I Saw You

by Julie Parsons

  Tony Heffernan arrived with a plastic bag filled with files. He tipped them out on the glass table. ‘Don’t ask me how I got this stuff,’ he said, face red and sweaty. ‘Give me a drink, Johnny, quick.’ Favours from years back had been called in, he explained. And it all had to be returned before the night was over. ‘Otherwise I’ll be in deep shit. Anyway, have a look. You were right about the snake man. And you’ll probably identify the guy with him too.’

  McLoughlin leafed through the pages. Gerry Leonard, born 19 July 1968. Brought up in Fatima Mansions in Rialto. Youngest of six children. His convictions went way back – petty theft, joy-riding, minor assault – to the late 1980s. Then his name started appearing with some of the really well-known criminals. Guys who were importing heroin by the containerload. Flooding the streets and the working-class estates with the drug. Leonard was arrested and questioned on a number of occasions, but the guards could never hold him. There was never enough evidence. So the police found themselves an informant. They set up a witness-protection programme and a man called Martin Kennedy was their first lure. The haul was impressive. They got Gerry Leonard and all his mates. McLoughlin looked at the photos. ‘Yeah, that’s him. And that’s the other fucker, Peter Feeney. He was the backup.’ He stabbed the picture with his finger.

  Peter Feeney, Gerry Leonard and Shane Ward had stood trial for drug importation. The DPP had thrown in a few more charges just to be on the safe side. But the problem was that Martin Kennedy was an idiot. McLoughlin remembered the way they had winced as they listened to him stumbling through his evidence. The guy was so drugged with tranquillizers he could hardly stand, barely remember his own name. He was so frightened that the banging of a door drained the colour from his face and made his legs shake. Still, his evidence was convincing. Leonard and Ward were convicted, sentenced to thirty years in prison. Feeney, who was obviously a minor player, got off. But a year ago Leonard had appealed. His barrister, Dominic de Paor, cut through the prosecution case like a knife through butter. And Leonard had been released.

  ‘What’s he been up to since he got out?’ McLoughlin asked Heffernan. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Actually, nothing, so far as anyone knows. He went to Spain for a few months. But he’s been keeping his nose clean. Although you can be sure that he’s still controlling his piece of the drug action in the inner city.’

  McLoughlin sifted through the pile of paper in front of him. Leonard’s career was a microcosm of the way that Dublin’s crime and criminals had changed over the last twenty years. He checked back to see what was his first offence.

  ‘Hey.’ McLoughlin’s voice rose with excitement. ‘“Interviewed on the twenty-ninth of June 1988 Bray Garda station. Suspect was questioned in connection with the taking without permission of a motorboat on Lough Dubh. Suspect was with three other men, Shane Ward, Peter Feeney and Lawrence O’Toole. All were questioned but no charges were put forward.”’ He took a sip from his glass. ‘How extraordinary. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  Harris and Heffernan looked blankly at him.

  ‘It means that Gerry Leonard was one of the boys who were indirectly responsible for the death of James de Paor. They stole the boat from its mooring. It was because of them that James and Marina went out in that dinghy. And as a result James drowned.’ He dropped the file on top of the rest and leaned back. ‘And nearly twenty years later James’s son gets him out of prison.’

  ‘Do you think he knew?’ Heffernan wiped his hands on a clean white handkerchief.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Like father, like son. It was the kind of case that James used to specialize in. Controversial, very high profile, very well paid.’ McLoughlin gestured to Harris for a refill.

  ‘Yes.’ He lifted the bottle. ‘How much per day? Couple of grand?’

  ‘And then some. At least.’ McLoughlin nodded his thanks. ‘At least.’

  For a while they contemplated.

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Heffernan sat back and stretched his legs. ‘Free legal aid. Set up to help the deserving poor. And made millionaires of all those clever boys. Doesn’t seem fair.’ He sighed, then sat up. ‘Oh, Michael, I knew I wanted to tell you something. You asked me about Helena de Paor, what Janet knew about her.’

  ‘Yeah.’ McLoughlin watched the bubbles in his glass rise to the top.

  ‘She’s some cookie. She and James had a baby girl who died. It was assumed it was a cot death but, according to Janet, the doctors suspected it might not have been death by natural causes. James wasn’t convinced. He couldn’t believe it of her. Anyway, the end result was that she was committed. She was having delusions, hallucinations. Hearing voices, that sort of thing. James was very protective. And even though they were separated he carried on looking after her.’ Heffernan spread his arms wide. ‘But Helena de Paor, it has to be said, was as clever as she was mad.’ He crossed his legs.

  ‘Yeah,’ McLoughlin interrupted, ‘I know about the court case. But tell me, is she still sick?’

  Heffernan shrugged. ‘Well, as far as everyone knows she’s out of hospital. But that’s because her son is looking after her.’

  ‘Dominic?’

  ‘Yeah, the one and only. Janet reckons there’s a bit of a Mr-Rochester-and-the-mad-wife-in-the-attic going on there. Apparently he has her put away on the estate in Wicklow. He’s devoted to her. Without him, by all accounts, she’d still be in Grangegorman and there’d be no way she’d ever leave.’

  McLoughlin lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling. And he thought about the email that Tom Spencer had sent. He had placed the motorboat at the far end of the lake. He had said nothing about its occupants. He had given the positions of everyone else. McLoughlin pictured his little sketch map. Sally and Vanessa on the beach. Dominic de Paor and his friends in the woods. Marina and James in the dinghy. And Gerry Leonard, Shane Ward, Peter Feeney and Lawrence O’Toole in the motorboat. He rolled over on to his side. Then on to his back again. He sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. He angled it towards the ceiling. He could see the shapes beneath the white paint. Loops and swirls of letters, maybe. He got up and went to the window. He opened it and gazed down into the apartment block’s central courtyard. The grounds were landscaped, paved with limestone flags with a large round pond in the middle. A fountain tinkled sweetly. He could hear the clang of the high metal gates as they swung back to admit residents. It was very secure here, he thought. Guards on duty twenty-four hours a day. No chance of any incursions from the outside world.

  He moved away from the window and began to dress. Then he stepped quietly into the corridor, walked past Harris’s bedroom and up the stairs into the sitting room. He took the keys from the hook by the door and let himself out. The lift was swift and silent. He stepped into the lobby. The floor was tiled with marble and the walls were painted a dull ochre. The only light came from behind the long desk where a security guard was seated. As McLoughlin approached he said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  His accent was thick. Russian, McLoughlin thought. He took out his ID card. ‘I’m looking for some information about an incident that took place here a few months ago. Someone went into the show apartment and painted all over the walls. I’m wondering if you know anything about it.’ The guard looked bored. He didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m investigating a death by suicide that happened a couple of months ago. You may have known the dead woman. Marina Spencer? She was the designer here. We have reason to believe that her death was not quite as it seemed.’ He rested his elbows on the desk.

  ‘Sure, Marina, I know her well. She very nice lady. Very sad when she die.’ The guard pointed at McLoughlin’s bruises. ‘You have a bit of trouble?’

  ‘I walked into a plate-glass door. Didn’t realize it wasn’t open. You know how it is,’ McLoughlin told him. ‘As I was saying, I’m interested to know exactly what was painted on the walls in the apartment.’

  The guard reached down and pulled open a drawer. He fumbled around, then spread a
number of computer printouts on the desk. ‘These. You want these?’

  McLoughlin picked them up. The words ‘I saw you’ were scrawled in huge red letters across the walls and ceiling.

  ‘Who did it? Did you ever find out?’ He tapped the pictures with a finger.

  The guard shrugged. ‘The developer, he not want any trouble, any fuss. He not call the police or anything like that.’

  ‘But,’ McLoughlin glanced up at the ceiling, at the camera that was trained on him, ‘you have CCTV. I’m sure you have it on all the entrances and exits, don’t you? Did you not check it?’

  ‘Sure,’ the guard said. ‘Sure we did. We not see the painting being done. We see some men who come into building. Here, if you interested.’ He stood up and took out a large bunch of keys. He opened a cupboard concealed behind him in a decorated wall panel. Inside, McLoughlin saw a row of monitors and a bank of DVD machines. The guard rummaged in another drawer.

  ‘My boss he mad. He say we need to stop this kind of thing. He check the disks. He see the man he think is doing painting. He tell the developer. The developer say he not interested. You want come in? I show you.’

  McLoughlin squeezed around the back of the desk and into the narrow space. The guard slipped a disk from its cover and slotted it into one of the machines. He picked up a remote control and pressed a button.

  McLoughlin saw the picture come up on the monitor. The guard fast forwarded, then stopped and pressed play. Gerry Leonard and Peter Feeney walked in through the front door. They headed purposefully for the lift. ‘No one stopped them?’

  ‘They say they work for agency who sell apartments. They say they have things to do in show apartment. They go on up.’ The guard pressed eject. He took another disk from the pile and began to play it. ‘Look, here, camera on penthouse landing. See?’

  McLoughlin saw, all right. He saw Leonard roll up his sleeves. He saw the snake tattoo. He saw the can of paint and the brush. He saw the door to the show apartment open, then close behind them.

  ‘That’s great, thanks.’ He put his hand into his pocket and found his wallet. He pulled out a fifty-euro note. ‘Thanks,’ he said again, as he pressed the money into the guard’s top pocket. He took the disks from him. ‘I’ll look after these. Don’t worry about that.’

  The guard smiled. His teeth were shiny, metallic. ‘No problem. I like Marina. She very nice lady. I very sad when she die. You think this painting thing have to do with her?’

  ‘I think maybe. Spasiba bolshoi.’ McLoughlin held out his hand.

  ‘Thank you very much too. You’re welcome. Perzhalsta.’ The guard shook it vigorously. ‘Spackoyny noitch.’

  ‘And goodnight to you.’

  McLoughlin got into the lift and pressed the button for the penthouse. He leaned against the cool marble wall and closed his eyes as it moved quickly upwards. ‘I saw you’ painted on the walls. ‘I saw you’ whispered into her phone. ‘I saw you’ written on the back of the photographs. The lift hissed to a stop and the doors slid open. He stepped out on to the landing and felt in his pocket for the keys. He opened the door and walked into the sitting room. He sat down at Harris’s computer and touched the keyboard. He slipped the DVD from the camera in the lobby into the slot and clicked it open. He found Gerry Leonard. He watched him talk to the guard on the desk, then wait for the lift. He clicked forward. And a woman came into the lobby. She was slim, dark. She was wearing a summer dress. She waved to the guard as she passed his desk, then spoke to him. She reached into a big wicker basket. She pulled out a watermelon. She threw it towards him and he caught it. She was laughing. He was laughing. McLoughlin took out the DVD and inserted the one from the camera on the upper landing. He found Leonard as he went into the apartment. Then he found Marina. She stepped from the lift. She pushed open the door. She went in. He watched, he waited. Five minutes later she came out. Her phone was to her ear. She looked stricken, frightened. She pressed the button for the lift. She put away her phone. Then she turned from the lift and pushed open the door to the stairs. She disappeared.

  He moved back through the DVD. He wanted to see her again. Bring her to life on the computer screen. The lift doors opened. Workmen stepped out. Painters, decorators, men in suits with brochures and briefcases. The lift doors opened. Marina stepped out. But this time she was not alone. The camera showed a tall man with dark hair. His shoulders were broad, his features distinctive. He turned towards the camera. He put his hand on her shoulder. She smiled at him. That wide, welcoming, smile. Dominic de Paor opened the door to the apartment. He stood back and she walked through. He followed her. The door closed behind them.

  McLoughlin stared at the computer screen. He replayed the scene. He watched them come out of the lift. He watched them on the landing. He checked the date. It was two days before the paint incident. He switched the DVDs. He saw her come into the lobby. She waved to the guard as she passed the desk. She was alone. She stopped to look at a large plant in a huge terracotta pot. De Paor came through the automatic doors. He didn’t look at her. She joined him at the lift. They didn’t speak. They didn’t look at each other. They got into the lift. The doors closed. He switched the DVDs again. The lift doors opened. Marina stepped out. De Paor put his hand on her shoulder. She smiled at him. She opened the door. He stood back and she walked through. He followed her. The door closed behind them.

  ‘What were you doing, Marina?’ he whispered.

  And he heard her voice: ‘Help me, please, help me.’

  And he remembered what Poppy had said. About Mark Porter and Dominic de Paor. How Porter would show up with flowers and presents. And when de Paor was finished with a woman, Porter got the leftovers.

  His phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket. He looked down at the screen. It was the local Garda station.

  ‘Inspector McLoughlin,’ the voice was young, female, ‘this is Stepaside station. Just wanted to let you know that your house alarm has been activated. We rang your land line, according to procedure, but there was no answer. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the city centre. I’ll go home immediately.’ He pressed eject and the DVD slid out of the computer.

  ‘We have the number of your local key-holder. Will I call him?’ The voice sounded calm.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be home in half an hour.’ He put both DVDs into his pocket. ‘It’s probably a false alarm. Thanks.’

  He’d have to wake Johnny. Borrow his car. His own was still in the city centre where he’d left it that afternoon.

  ‘Fine, but in the meantime a car from Stepaside is on its way. I’ll let you know if there’s a problem. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s great. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks.’

  He looked around the room. It was as before. Bright, cheerful, welcoming. He hurried down the stairs and into Harris’s bedroom. He was lying face down, spreadeagled across the bed.

  ‘Johnny.’ He shook his shoulder. ‘Johnny, wake up. There’s a problem. I need a hand.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The bus let the girl off at the turn for Sally Gap. The driver watched her as she crossed the road and began to walk away up the hill. It was the third time this week she had travelled with him. A pretty little thing, he thought, with her shiny brown hair tied back under a red scarf, her long patterned skirt and sandals. She reminded him of girls he had known when he was young, way back in the sixties. Hippy girls who smelt like this young one, of that Indian perfume – patchouli, it was called – wearing clogs or sandals, with a leather thong tied around the ankle. He had warned her to be careful up that mountain road. ‘You never know,’ he said, as he slowed to a stop. ‘Don’t take any lifts up there.’

  But she just smiled and shook her head, so her silvery earrings tinkled, then lifted her hand and waved to him as she crossed to the other side of the road. He waited until she had disappeared around the first bend, then drove slowly away towards Roundwood. He wouldn’t let any of his daughters go up there by themselves
, he thought.

  Vanessa heard the bus move off. She didn’t look back. Silly man, she thought, with all his warnings of the dire consequences of walking up the road to Sally Gap. He didn’t know how lucky she was. He didn’t know that she wasn’t going off on some stupid quest for adventure. He didn’t know that she was going home, back to the Lake House, that she was part of the family who owned it, and in three days’ time, when she became eighteen, part of it would be hers. For ever.

  She fumbled in her bag for her iPod and slipped on the earphones. Helena had played her some opera. A singer called Maria Callas. She had told her all about ‘La Callas’, as she called her. How she came from a poor family in Athens. How she had had a voice that moved men to tears. How she had been in love with a man called Onassis, a small, ugly man, but a man of power and influence who filled her with passion and desire. But he had left her, abandoned her for Jackie Kennedy, a pale and bloodless woman, Helena said, whom he married for show and respectability. Callas’s voice filled her head as she walked quickly along the narrow road. Helena had shown her the old records she had collected. A huge pile of them. The covers were beautiful. And so was Callas. Helena had held her photograph up to her face and kissed it. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think there is a resemblance between us?’

  And Vanessa had agreed that there was. The jet black hair that framed the white face with the high cheekbones, the strong nose, and the eyes rimmed with dark liner.

  She stopped to catch her breath, then jumped into the shade as a convoy of army trucks lumbered past. There were always soldiers up here. She had never seen so many before. They waved and smiled from the back of the truck and she waved and smiled too, then stepped out into the sunshine so she could see the view ahead. The road, like a narrow dark ribbon, curling up the side of the mountain on one side, and on the other, the deep valley and the lake just visible like an antique mirror, the kind she had seen in the Lake House, the silvered glass uneven and patchy so it reflected imperfectly. She was too far away to see the house. It was hidden deep at the end of the valley, but she could see the tops of the trees that surrounded it. And she could picture it in her mind’s eye. The front door standing open to welcome her. And Helena in the kitchen making scones, the dog asleep in the corner by the Aga. The dog that now did not fill her so full of dread, that did not bark, but stood up and wagged his long tail, smiled, opening his pink and black lips, then ambled over, sniffing her skirt and resting his head on her thigh, his large yellow eyes liquid and glossy like clover honey. As she stood still as a statue, heart thumping in her chest, then reached down to pat him.