I Saw You (12 page)

‘Wind chimes are irritating. It’s the size of the pieces of metal. But those glass drops are so tiny and delicate. Their sound is much more subtle. I think anyway.’

‘Mmm.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Perhaps. But you didn’t come here to talk to me about sound and its effect on the emotions, did you, Inspector McLoughlin? You told my
receptionist you wanted to see me about Marina Spencer. I’m surprised the guards have so much time to spend on her death. I’ve already spoken at length to Inspector Brian Dooley. I
understood he was in charge of the case.’

‘Yeah, well, he is.’ McLoughlin shifted awkwardly. Suddenly he was very uncomfortable. ‘But sometimes someone else is asked to take a look, you know. A fresh pair of eyes and
all that.’

‘Fresh pair of eyes. Mmm. Jackie phoned Brian Dooley. He was surprised that you were here. He said that not only were you not involved in the case, but that you had retired recently. He
said something unrepeatable about you. Funny but unrepeatable.’

There was silence. Even the chandelier was silent.

‘OK. OK, I hold up my hands.’ He squirmed. For the first time since he had come into the room Dr Simpson smiled. The effect was transforming. The years fell away. She became young
and attractive. ‘I’m not officially involved in this whole thing. But I’m a friend of Marina’s mother. She’s very upset.’

‘Understandably.’ The smile had gone.

‘She doesn’t believe that Marina’s death was suicide. So I said I’d make a few enquiries. See if I could shed any light on what happened. I saw in her diary that she was
visiting you regularly. So I thought maybe you might be able to tell me something of what was going on in her life.’ He waited. Would the smile come back? It didn’t.

‘Look, Inspector, Mister, Whatever-you-are, I’m bound by a code of ethics. I gave some information to Inspector Dooley because I felt it would help him. I have no such obligation to
you. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve no more right to know anything about Marina Spencer than any Joe Bloggs outside in the street. Now,’ she paused to let the weight of her words
make their mark, ‘it’s getting late. I’ve had a long day so perhaps you might take yourself off?’ She stood up.

‘Look,’ he stood too, ‘I’m sorry I tried to pull the wool over your eyes. I just wanted to ask you, was Marina hiding something? Was she scared of someone? I think she
was being threatened. Did she tell you about it?’

She looked down at her desk. ‘Threatened? She was threatened by a lot of things. Fear of failure. Loss of love and respect. And, yes, there were things about her past she was hiding.
Marina had secrets. But we all have secrets. We all have nasty little things in our past that we wish we hadn’t done. Marina had her share of them. That’s as much as I’ll say to
you.’ She shuffled some papers.

‘So were you surprised when she died? Did you think she was suicidal?’

‘If I’d thought that I would have treated her differently. But suicide is a mysterious act. The problem is that after someone takes their life everyone tries very hard to find ways
to understand what happened. They start looking for signs, for hints of what was to come. But we can’t know what the suicidal state of mind is like. Because, above all, we want to live and we
cannot understand someone who does not want that any longer.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I would help you if I could. The answer to your question is that I didn’t know she was going to
die by suicide. I was very surprised when I heard what had happened. In one way, that is. But there again, she was at times very self-destructive. She abused alcohol. She abused drugs. But she did
have moments of intense happiness. She was a very vivid person. I have to say that I miss her.’ She moved away from her desk and across to the window. She was smaller than he had realized,
her size emphasized by the wide linen trousers she was wearing. She stretched up towards the catch and slid the window closed. Then she undid the heavy curtain ties on either side of the wooden
architrave and pulled the curtains together.

McLoughlin moved towards the other window. The curtains were a heavy grey brocade.

‘These are lovely,’ he said, as he loosed them from their tasselled keepers.

‘Yes, they are. Marina chose them.’

‘Oh?’

‘I met her when she was doing some work for a friend. I had just moved my practice here and I asked her advice about decorating. She did a lovely job on this room.’ She walked back
to the desk and picked up her bag, ‘Time to go.’

He followed her down the stairs and into the hall. They went outside into the evening sunshine. She locked the door.

‘No alarm?’ He looked up at the building.

‘No. The guy who owns the house lives and works in the top-floor apartment. He keeps a good eye on the offices. In fact, well, you’ll be surprised to hear me say this after my own
response to you, but you should talk to him. About Marina.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. His name is Mark Porter. They were friends. In fact, he—’

‘Yeah,’ he interrupted. ‘He brought her to the party.’

‘Well done. I can see you’re up to speed.’ She smiled and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Look, I don’t really know what to say to you, but to be honest, I think
on the balance of probability that Marina either killed herself deliberately or she was so careless of her safety, you know, drinking excessively, taking cocaine, going out in the boat by herself
at night, that even if, strictly speaking, it was an accident, it wasn’t. Do you see what I mean?’

She began to walk away. He didn’t want her to go. She reminded him of someone else. Margaret Mitchell had some of the same combination of intelligence and astringent grace. And she had a
smile to match. He wanted Gwen to smile at him again. He wanted to bask a bit longer in its sudden warmth. ‘Hey, Dr Simpson, Gwen, hold on a minute.’

She slowed and turned.

‘Would you fancy a drink or something? Maybe a bite to eat. Something to repay you for your time and your kindness.’

She stared at him for a moment. ‘Sorry, Mr McLoughlin. I think I mentioned that I was tired, had had a long day. Looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.’ She raised a hand. Her
keys jingled. ‘’Bye for now.’

He watched her drive away. Loneliness had him in its steely grip. He couldn’t face the thought of his empty house. He took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. It was just six
o’clock. If he hurried he might get to the club in time to go sailing. It was Johnny Harris’s night. He selected his number and pressed the green button. He heard the familiar welcoming
voice: ‘Michael, what can I do for you?’

‘Johnny, got room for me on board?’

‘Sure thing, Michael, sure thing.’

He found his car and unlocked the door. Just what he needed, the wind on his face and the taste of salt on his lips. He started the engine. To hell with women. Nothing but trouble. To hell with
the lot of them.

‘God, I needed that.’ Johnny Harris lifted his pint of Heineken and drained half in one long swallow. McLoughlin watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, the
skin of his neck, red and wrinkled. He had a sudden unwanted image of Harris in an embrace with the recently departed Chicko.

‘What’s up, Michael? Pint not agreeing with you?’ Harris put his glass on the table and pulled a cigar from the top pocket of his faded denim shirt.

‘No, it’s fine. I was just reflecting on that broach out there. We nearly ended up in the drink. A bit hairy, wasn’t it?’ McLoughlin picked up a box of matches from the
table, struck one and held it out.

‘Nah, not at all. Not with yours truly at the helm.’ Harris put the tip of his cigar into the flame and sucked hard. Then he sat back, a stream of smoke pouring from his mouth.
‘Isn’t that right, Bill? Not a chance of anything going wrong. You have to take a few chances if you want to win.’

Bill Early, one of Harris’s regular crew, grunted, then drained his glass. He stood up and gesticulated at the bar.

‘Thanks.’ McLoughlin raised his pint. ‘Same again.’

The terrace outside the yacht club was crowded with sailors, faces flushed, voices raised. The sun was still hot. McLoughlin turned his back on it. He was tired. The sailing had been
competitive. Johnny was a demon when he got going. All his polite diffidence vanished as soon as he put on his life-jacket.

McLoughlin regarded him now as he sat back and blew smoke-rings. A steady stream of congratulations came his way. Everyone dropping by to shake his hand or offer him a drink. It must have been
hard, McLoughlin thought, when he decided to come out. Hard to ignore the sniggers, the whispers, the cruel asides. But, McLoughlin reckoned, he was protected by his family standing. Hard to ignore
the Harris money.

McLoughlin finished his drink and picked up the fresh one Bill Early had left for him. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could have slept where he was. He should go home, he
thought, before he drank too much more. But the thought of the empty house still filled him with dread.

‘Hey, Michael, no snoozing allowed.’ Harris’s voice cut through his gloom. ‘What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this place exciting enough?’

McLoughlin forced one eye open. His friend’s face was flushed. He stubbed out his cigar and rocked back in his chair.

‘Think it’s nearly time to go.’ McLoughlin raised his glass. ‘It’s us retirees, you know. We’ve no stamina.’

‘Yeah.’ Harris sounded miserable. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. It starts with such promise, then somehow or other it fizzles out.’

McLoughlin said nothing.

‘It’s not much to ask, is it?’ Harris went on, bitter now.

‘What?’

‘Happiness, contentment, love.’ Harris glared at the crowded terrace. ‘All these lucky people, they could have it in spades. Countless opportunities. From the moment they reach
puberty, it’s there for them. They just have to reach out and pluck it. And what do they do? Look.’ He jabbed his finger towards a group standing together at the top of the steps.
‘I know for a fact that he, the guy with the red hair and the very red face, is shagging his brother’s wife and she, the woman next to him, is a serial adulterer whose cuckolded husband
is in John of Gods drying out.’ He drained his glass and reached for another. ‘And, look, you see that lot at the table next to us?’

‘Ssh, Johnny, keep it down.’ McLoughlin squirmed. He’d only been a member for a couple of years and he didn’t have the same kind of casual indifference to convention that
Harris exuded. But Harris ignored him.

‘The very good-looking man who’s positively drooling over that young one in the shorts and the halter-neck top, well, he’s married to the rather plain woman. See her, over
there on her own, the one with the big nose and the thick ankles? A marriage made in the boardroom rather than the bedroom, if you know what I mean. In fact,’ he lowered his voice, ‘you
know who they are?’

McLoughlin shook his head.

‘The post-mortem I did this afternoon. The woman in Rathmines?’

‘What about her?’

‘Well, that’s her sister. Poppy Atkinson.’

‘Oh?’ McLoughlin craned his neck. ‘Was it suicide? Or the other?’

Harris shrugged. ‘Looked like suicide to me. Kind of similar to your one. Your Marina Spencer. Alcohol, cocaine, although she didn’t drown. She died in her own bed. Heart
failure.’

‘And the husband? Is there a husband?’

‘Very much so. She’s married to Charlie Webb. One of the estate agent Webbs. Worth a fortune. Beautiful house in Palmerston Park. I counted four cars in the drive. Poverty
wasn’t her problem.’

‘So what was?’

‘Who knows? She left a note. Unsigned, something about asking for forgiveness. I spoke briefly to her husband. He says he can’t imagine why she would want forgiveness. As far as he
was concerned, they were extremely happy, madly in love, completely faithful, two beautiful kids and everything to live for.’

‘Any signs of anything else? Force, violence, anything odd sexually?’

‘Nothing. I did find traces of semen on the sheets. But that’s hardly surprising. Anyway, Poppy over there is her sister. Although you wouldn’t know it to look at
them.’

‘And where was the dead woman’s husband when she was dying?’ McLoughlin’s glass was empty. He was tempted to have another.

‘He was away overnight in London on business.’ Harris sat up. The self-pity was gone. ‘Went straight to his office in town from the plane the next morning. Phoned home to say
he was back and got worried when no one answered. Then the housekeeper called him. Said she’d gone into the house, found the two kids watching TV. They said their mother was asleep, that her
bedroom door was locked. The housekeeper couldn’t open the door so she phoned Charlie. He phoned the guards and they broke the door down and there she was.’

‘Poor thing.’ McLoughlin finished off the last mouthful of Guinness. ‘Was the husband playing away? Was the London trip a bit more pleasure than business?’

Harris sighed. ‘Who knows? He has the means, motive and opportunity. In other words, the money, the looks and the class.’

‘Well,’ McLoughlin stood up, ‘I’d better go. If I have another I’ll be here all night.’

‘Ah, don’t,’ Harris pleaded. ‘I’ll organize you a lift later on. There’s plenty of guys who live up your way.’

‘No, really, Johnny. I’m trying to keep a lid on the drinking.’ He took his jacket from the back of the chair. Harris looked bereft. ‘Where’s Bill gone? And the
rest of the guys? What’s happened to crew loyalty?’

Harris grinned broadly. ‘“Sometimes it’s hard to be a skipper,”’ he sang loudly.

‘Yeah, right.’ McLoughlin saluted him. ‘I’ll see you soon. Thanks for the sail. It was great. And if you want me again, if you want the winning team, I’m all yours.
Any time.’

Harris punched his arm lightly. ‘Listen, Michael, sorry for the ould maudlin. You know the way it is.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks again.’

McLoughlin walked back inside and through the bar. It was quiet and almost empty. A group of well-dressed middle-aged women were sitting over their gin and tonic on the heavy leather sofa. They
didn’t raise their heads as he passed. He stopped in the hall and put on his jacket. This was such a beautiful building, he thought. Early nineteenth century with all the elegance and grace
of its period. Above his head was the great domed skylight. He could imagine being here when everyone else had gone home, moonlight and starlight filtering through on to the dark blue carpet. He
pulled open the heavy front door and walked out to the granite front step. He stopped and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. And heard a woman crying. She was leaning against one of the pillars
that flanked the club’s fac¸ade, shoulders shaking, her breath coming in great gasps.