I Saw You (23 page)

‘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.

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-f 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 found.’ 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.