I Saw You (35 page)

All those tiny triumphs. All those accomplishments. All those achievements. Photographs of school sports days, reports decorated with As and Bs, splodgy paintings and lumpy pieces of pottery,
lovingly kept. So much love, so much attention lavished. For what? she thought, as she eased herself off the rock to go home. For a cruel death and a lifetime of longing. A cloud crossed the sun
and it was suddenly dark. She shivered, and moved towards the steps up to the concrete walkway. And saw a familiar figure hurrying towards her.

‘Margaret! Margaret, I’ve been looking for you.’ Sally’s face was white.

‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

‘It’s Vanessa. She didn’t come home last night. It’s not like her. And she always phones me. Here,’ Sally held out her mobile, ‘I’ve been ringing her
and ringing her but her phone’s switched off. Listen.’

‘I’m sure she’s all right.’ Margaret put her arm around Sally’s shoulders. She took a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, you know what kids are like at her
age.’

‘But it’s her birthday tomorrow. We always spend the day before planning it. Always.’

‘It’s her eighteenth, Sally.’ Margaret’s tone was calm. ‘It’s a big one. She probably wants to spend it with her friends. Don’t worry. Look, it’s
early yet, it’s only just after three. She’ll be home by dinnertime I’m sure.’ And felt the chill creep through her body.

‘No, it’s more than that – I don’t know what to do.’ Sally’s voice was breaking.

Margaret tried to calm herself. ‘We’ll go home. We’ll have a glass of wine. We’ll sit in the garden. And if she hasn’t come back in two hours we’ll make a
decision. Together.’

‘To do what? What will we decide?’ Sally’s voice was trembling.

‘We’ll call the police. We’ll report Vanessa missing. They’ll know what to do.’ And Margaret was back, that hot summer evening nearly ten years ago. Standing in the
hall in the house in Brighton Vale. Trying to be polite.
Listen to me, listen to me. My daughter’s been gone for more than twenty-four hours. I wouldn’t be on the phone to you if I
didn’t have a reason. There’s something wrong, I know there is.
And the sound of bored resignation in the policeman’s tone.
How old did you say she was?
And now she
shouts, all politeness, all restraint gone,
For the third time, she’s twenty.
And he sighs and says,
At her age she can, if she wants, leave home. She isn’t a minor. I’m
sorry but people disappear all the time.
And she wants to grab him and shake him.
Listen to me, listen to me, take her description. Do something. Find her.

‘Don’t worry, Sally.’ She spoke slowly, carefully. ‘We’ll phone Michael McLoughlin.’

‘Will you speak to him? Will you explain? I can’t think straight. I don’t know.’ Tears spilled from her eyes. Margaret pulled her head down on to her shoulder. She guided
her through the crowd. It will be all right, Margaret said to herself. It will be all right. But she put her hand into her bag and her fingers felt the cover of the book. She stroked it. And it was
as if the years had dropped away. Dropped away and left a dark pit in front of her eyes.

Mail2Web.com. McLoughlin tapped the domain name into the Google subject line. He pressed return. He waited. The dialogue box asked him for his username and password. The
username was easy. He wasn’t so sure about the password. He had so many, these days, and he could never remember which one belonged to which bank account, website, whatever. He typed in the
letters MPJM, his initials, Michael Patrick John McLoughlin, and pressed return. The screen filled with his emails. A relief. It was bad enough that his own computer was banjaxed. Bad enough that
he had nagged Johnny Harris to let him use his home PC. But if he’d had to fiddle around with passwords, well, that would have been the last straw.

He began to scroll though his messages. They were all here, the emails Tony Heffernan had sent him when he had first asked him to look into Marina’s death. He had emailed him the
statements that Dominic de Paor, Mark Porter, Gilly, Sophie and the others at the party had given. Helena’s was also there, with the forensics reports, Johnny Harris’s post-mortem
report. And the photographs taken of the scene. He clicked on them to open them, drinking his coffee as they unfolded down the screen. He still wasn’t convinced that there was much mystery
about how Marina died. So she had contributed somehow or other to the death of her stepfather. So someone was threatening her. So she had been humiliated at the party, drunk far too much, snorted
too many lines of coke and drowned. It still looked like suicide or an accident. Not much more than that.

One thing surprised him, though. The boat was riding low in the lake. It was barely floating. It was more than half full of water – it reached almost to the middle seat. He hadn’t
thought much of it before. He printed the picture and put it on the desk. Then he hunted through the other emails for a description of the boat’s condition. The forensics people had taken it
out of the water for a detailed examination.

Bluebird
, the dinghy James de Paor had given Marina that summer. She had sailed it. She and James had gone out in it to challenge the boys in the motorboat. She had left it at the Lake
House after James’s death. But someone had taken care of it. Someone had painted it, varnished it, made sure that the wood did not rot, that it did not develop any leaks. So if it was, he
checked the statement, ‘well maintained and seaworthy’, why had it taken so much water on board? How had the water got there? He ticked off the possible reasons. Number one; rain?
He’d have to check the weather reports but he was certain there had been no rain for the couple of weeks before midsummer. Choppy water, wind? Again, as far as he could remember, high
pressure had dominated. Virtually no wind, and the lake as smooth as glass. He tried to imagine it. Marina, drunk, stoned, sitting in the boat, rowing herself out into the middle of the lake.
Shipping the oars in the way she had been taught, the kind of thing that would have been automatic to her. Sliding her legs over the gunwales, then slipping or falling into the water. The boat
would have lurched as her weight shifted. But he didn’t think it would have dipped below the surface. There might have been splashes, maybe. But not much. What if she’d changed her
mind? Turned back, grabbed the sides, tried to haul herself into the boat. It would have been hard. He tried to visualize it. But he still couldn’t see, even if she had succeeded in getting
back into the boat, how so much water would have poured into it.

He got up and paced the room again. He tried to remember. Had he seen the dinghy that day when he was at the lake? He didn’t think so. But he had noticed a small boathouse at the far end
of the beach, near the field where the deer were grazing. He drained his coffee, rinsed and dried the mug and put it away. Then he picked up his keys, his phone, his wallet. The boat had had water
in it. Why? He closed the apartment door behind him and got into the lift. He pressed the button for the ground floor. Only one way to find out.

The dog’s collar was tight around her neck. It cut into her chin when she moved her head. And every now and then Helena jerked the lead, just to let her know she
hadn’t forgotten about her.

Vanessa lay on a rough blanket in the small back bedroom at Dove Cottage. Tremors ran through her body from her head to her white feet. She was trying to keep calm. Trying to work out what to
do. She couldn’t understand how this had happened. One minute she was splashing around in the lake, feeling so happy she thought she would burst, the next she was lying on a rock with
Helena’s hands around her neck, strapping on the collar. Vanessa had seen Helena take the collar off the dog. But she had thought nothing of it. Thought, if at all, that it was because he was
swimming, and that maybe weed might catch in it and drag him down. But nothing could have dragged that dog down. Vanessa had tried to struggle, to flail with her hands, but the dog growled. His
lips had pulled back from his teeth and the sound, a rumble that turned into a sharp snarl, filled her ears.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’ Helena smiled down at her. ‘He doesn’t like it. And he can get very upset if he’s not happy.’

‘My clothes,’ Vanessa reached in vain for her skirt and blouse. But Helena jerked her away, so that she thought her neck would break or she would choke.

‘You don’t need clothes where you’re going. The only thing you’ll ever need now is a winding sheet. You know what that is, don’t you?’

Vanessa lay now curled into a ball on the blanket. Helena was on the bed. The dog was by the door. She wanted to move, to stretch her legs, uncurl her body, but she was scared to draw attention
to herself. She was so thirsty. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the picnic in the woods. The thought of food made her feel sick, but she was longing for water. Her mouth was dry
and dusty and her lips were cracked. She stirred and raised her head from the floor.

‘What?’ Helena lifted her head too and took in the slack of the lead, twining it around her hand. ‘What now?’

‘I’m thirsty. Could I have a drink?’

Helena cackled. ‘You know your problem, little girl? You shouldn’t have cried so much. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be nearly so thirsty. So, it’s your fault. Your
fault. Now be quiet. Enjoy your time here. Lie on the floor on your nice soft blanket and thank your lucky stars that I’m not as young as I used to be. That my energy is on the wane. Lie
there until it gets dark. Then, I think, it will be time for another swim. Or,’ she pushed herself up on the pillow, ‘how would it be to go out in the boat? Your sister’s boat.
The boat your sister and your father went out in that day, seventeen years ago when he drowned. You don’t remember it, do you? But I do.’ She lay down again. ‘They told me that
night that he was dead. They told me my son was fatherless. They didn’t want to let me out of hospital for the funeral. They said it would be bad for me, that it would upset me, that it would
slow down my recovery. But I insisted. I demanded. I got my solicitor to force them to let me go.’

She turned on to her side and jerked the lead. Vanessa’s head jerked too. ‘And I stood beside my son. And I watched your mother. Such a pathetic little creature. Like a house
sparrow. And I knew one day I would deal with her. So,’ she jerked the lead again, ‘come here to me, my little swallow. Come here to me, my little blue-tit. My little blackbird. My
little starling.’ She began to drag the girl across the floor. ‘And let me crush your whimpering body beneath mine. Let me feel your heart flutter in your breast. Let me feel your pulse
dance in your wrists.’

Vanessa tried to resist. She grabbed the leg of the bed and held on to it, but the pressure around her throat forced the air from her windpipe and she choked. She began to pray, as the tears
slid silently down her grubby face.

McLoughlin drove up the narrow hill road. He passed the gate with the keypad and the CCTV. He drove on upwards, winding towards the summit. He could see the lake below. It was
dark, shiny, glossy, like a Roman warrior’s polished metal shield. He pulled off the road and parked. Then he crossed the road and began to walk. It was hot, very hot. He’d be down in
the trees soon and it would be cooler there. He walked on and came to a stone wall, waist high, topped with a few strands of barbed wire. He pulled himself up and managed to climb over, just
avoiding snagging his trousers. He jumped down awkwardly, catching his hand as he landed. He swore loudly. The jagged tear in his left palm was oozing blood. He pulled a handkerchief from his
pocket, wrapped it around and tied it with a clumsy knot. It would have to do for the time being. He straightened up and tried to get his bearings. He could see the lake and, below to the right,
the grey slate roof of the house, and the stables behind. He must be close to where Tom Spencer had been that day. The view was spectacular. He could see across the lake to the little rapids and
the stream, a silver snake as it wriggled down into the next valley. To his left was the gate lodge and the drive, and as he watched, the sun glinted off the roof of a car moving slowly down
through the trees towards the house. He wished he had his binoculars. He couldn’t, from up there, identify the make or model. But he’d have to be careful where he went. He didn’t
want to encounter Gerry Leonard or any other of Dominic de Paor’s friends. He scrambled down from the rock. Better get going. No point in hanging around.

‘You didn’t know that, did you?’ Helena uncapped a bottle of mineral water.

Vanessa heard the hiss as the bubbles escaped. Her lips were cracked. Her tongue felt huge in her mouth. ‘Know what?’ It was hard to speak. She had to struggle to control her
voice.

‘Know that about your name. That my baby was called Vanessa. James loved that name. He loved the baby too. I sometimes thought he loved her more than he loved me. Of course, it was
inevitable that he would give you the same name. It wasn’t you he wanted or loved. It was my baby, my little Vanessa.’ She lifted the bottle to her lips and water ran down her chin as
she drank. ‘She’s buried here. Did you know?’

Vanessa could think of nothing but the water. If she could have a drink, nothing else would matter.

‘Yes, she’s in the deer pasture. There’s a large slab of granite over her grave. It has her name carved on it. Just her name. That’s enough.’ Helena rested the
bottle on her stomach.

Vanessa could almost smell the water. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

‘I wanted James to be buried here. If I’d had my way he would be in the deer pasture too. Under another slab of granite. But it wasn’t to be. Your mother took care of that. But
I took care of her. I made sure she would never be able to claim his name, or his property. And after all,’ she lifted the bottle and swirled the water, ‘why should she? It was her
daughter, after all, who killed him. There,’ she sat up and pressed the cold bottle hard against Vanessa’s cheek, ‘something else you didn’t know, my little bird.’ She
swung her legs off the bed and stood up.