Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
The voices droned softly. Gwen looked around. She clutched the small bouquet she had picked from her garden. Alchemilla mollis, green and frothy, a few marigolds, and some cornflowers. And she added into the bouquet some of the sweet pea that the nice young man had given her. The handsome young man, tall and slim with short black hair and eyes as blue as the sky behind his round gold-rimmed glasses. The friendly young man who’d stopped and chatted, one day a couple of weeks ago, then come back with the flowers. Thrust his nose into them, and said, ‘Smell, they’re amazing.’ While his friend, the chubby boy with the bright red hair, had hawked and spat phlegm on the footpath. And the handsome young man had chided him, told him off, told him to say sorry to the nice lady.
She stepped forward and pushed through the crowd. The crime scene tape was still in place. She held out the flowers. A policewoman, her fair hair scraped up into a ponytail, took them. She smiled her thanks. She bent down and placed them beside the gate. Gwen stepped back and stood in the crowd, listening to the rosary as the judge was carried down the steps and taken away. And she wondered, if she hadn’t fallen, if she hadn’t gone to hospital, would he still be alive?
Now her front gate clanked. She looked up. The shadow of the tall guard, his uniform neat, fell across her.
‘Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’ He smiled.
‘Of course not. Here,’ she patted the bench. ‘Sit here. I’d be delighted, if I can be of any help. You’re hot, can I get you a drink?’ Gwen got her to feet.
‘No, really, I’m fine,’ he tried to protest. But she disappeared inside, and came back with a glass of water.
‘Here,’ she held it out. ‘With a slice of mint, I hope you like it.’
He smiled again, took the glass and swallowed its contents in one go. She watched his Adam’s Apple jerking rhythmically as he drank. She could smell his sweat. It had been many years since she had smelt a young man. He smelt alive. Not like me, she thought, her body cold and dry.
The guard handed her the empty glass.
‘Thank you, that was just what I needed. Now,’ he picked up his pen, ‘can I ask your name?’
He took her details. Name, age, marital status. He asked if she lived alone. She did, she said, for many years.
‘And how long have you been here?’ he looked at her.
‘Forever, actually. I was born upstairs,’ and she pointed, ‘in the big bedroom on the second floor.’
‘Born there, not in hospital?’ he sounded surprised.
‘Oh yes, everyone then, in those days, they were all born at home. It was the way it was done.’
‘And was it safe?’ he seemed interested. ‘My wife, you see, she’s having a baby in a few months’ time. She wants a home birth, but I’m not sure about it.’
‘Safe,’ she pondered the question. ‘Well, I suppose nowadays you’d say it wasn’t. Sometimes babies died. Sometimes mothers died too. But mostly it was all right. The doctor came for me. The doctor didn’t always come, but I was early. Sudden, unexpected.’
Her mother’s waters had broken as she was walking the pier, a Sunday afternoon in summer, the sky and sea blue, and the town alive with visitors. Her father had called a horse-drawn cab from the stand along by the front and they had got home quickly. He had sent the maid for the doctor. By the time he arrived the baby was just about ready to come. There was blood, a lot of blood. Gwen still used some of the old bed linen, and some of it still had a faint brown stain.
‘Now,’ she sat up straight. ‘You’re not here for my stories. You’re here because John Hegarty is dead. So, how can I help you?’
‘You knew him, did you?’ The young man’s eyes were the dark blue of the Delphiniums her mother used to grow.
‘Oh yes, I like to think we were friends.’ She peered at him over her glasses. ‘He was a generous man. Loved to entertain.’
And she told him. The day the judge died. She and Samuel Dudgeon, another friend, had been invited for a drink.
‘Sherry it would have been. John knew I liked sherry.’
‘And,’ the guard’s hand flew over the page. His hand, smooth, without wrinkles or age spots. His joints mobile and flexible. She clasped her hands together and tried to hide them in the folds of her skirt. They were ugly, red, the knuckles swollen and misshapen. ‘The other person, Samuel did you say?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Samuel Dudgeon,’ she spelt out his surname. ‘He’s English, actually. He’s been living here for the last few years. He plays backgammon with the judge.’
‘Backgammon?’ the guard looked up.
‘You know, the board game. Dice, red and white counters. Not my thing but the judge and Samuel, they love it, well,’ she paused, ‘they loved it, I suppose I should say. Anyway I didn’t get there, unfortunately.’ And she explained. The fall, the bleeding, Elizabeth Fannin picking her up, the trip to hospital, the endless waiting. She pushed out her leg and lifted her skirt, just a little so he could see the dressing below the knee. He bent over to get a better look.
‘It’s very bruised. It must have hurt.’ His voice was concerned.
She nodded. ‘It did hurt, but a lot of fuss about nothing. Not the end of the world.’
‘And that,’ he pointed his pen towards her forehead and another big bruise. ‘I was going to ask. Did that happen at the same time?’
She nodded again. ‘Silly me, I’m a silly old thing. I’m supposed to use my stick, but such a nuisance.’
He asked her again. What time had she crossed the square? Where exactly had she fallen? How long had she been there before the other lady came along. Took Elizabeth’s name. Asked for her address but Gwen didn’t know it.
‘And as you were there on the grass, did you notice anything. Anything unusual? Out of the ordinary?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing, but I wasn’t in a fit state to be a Miss Marple if you know what I mean.’
He wrote it all down, then asked her if she had an address or phone number for the other person, ‘Mr…’ He consulted his notes.
‘Dudgeon, Mr Dudgeon.’ She smiled at him. ‘An address, not as such, but I do know where he lives.’ And she explained that he had got housing from the council. A little complex just past the church and the shops. It was for single people, men mostly. ‘It was the judge actually. He helped Samuel get the flat.’
She frowned. She hadn’t approved. The judge had what they called ‘pull’. Political connections. Her father had drummed it into her. His disapproval of that way of doing business. Years ago, before he had died he had said, ‘Nowadays it’s all about who you know,’ his mouth turning down in despair.
The guard stood, thanked her. Said she should remember to use her stick. ‘It’s the same with my gran. She hated it. But she fell too, a few times. Last time she broke her hip.’
Gwen got to her feet, slowly, stumbling a little. ‘Gosh, poor thing. I hope she’s all right now.’
‘She’s in a nursing home. She’s not happy, but,’ he shrugged and walked towards the front gate. He put on his cap, turned back and saluted her, ‘Thanks very much Miss Gibbon. You’ve been a great help.’
‘So, tell me, the judge. What’s the story?’
They were in Dominic Hayes’ spacious sitting room four stories above the town. A new apartment in one of the blocks across from the DART station. Steel and smoked glass from the outside, inside bright and clean and easy to keep. A view right over the harbour, and Howth Head like a brooding crocodile in the distance.
Dom’s wife was standing at the huge window which opened onto a wide balcony. She was pressing her hands against the glass and moving in tiny steps from side to side. From behind she looked perfectly fine. A woman in her
late fifties, still slim, her figure neat, her hair in tightly permed curls, wearing a knee-length skirt and a white blouse, with fluffy pink slippers on her feet. From the front she looked almost all right, except that there was a blankness in her expression, an inability to make eye contact. Now she stayed at the window, her hands pressed to the glass as she inched from left to right.
McLoughlin sipped his coffee. It was surprisingly good. Produced from the swanky machine installed in Dom’s shiny new kitchen. ‘Mmm, that’s delicious.’ He drank again. ‘Cost much? The machine?’
‘Came with the place. I bought the show apartment. Fully fitted, fully furnished. Didn’t have to do a thing.’ Dom settled himself into the large leather sofa. It squeaked gently beneath his bulk.
‘Great, lucky you. I’m beginning to wish I’d gone for a new build. All this renovation, refurbishment as they call it. Costs a fortune and one hassle after another.’ McLoughlin stretched his legs. His back was sore. Sleeping on the mattress wasn’t good for it.
‘Well, it was the easiest option really,’ Dom shifted uneasily, ‘the way Joanne is, you know? I couldn’t cope in the old house. Too many stairs, couldn’t get her up and down. Much better here. All one level and we’ve three toilets. And a walk-in shower. Fantastic.’ He lifted his mug.
At the sound of his voice Joanne turned. Her face crumpled, anxiously, then relaxed. She began to sing, softly, a sweet musical tone. McLoughlin recognised the tune.
Oh Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight
‘Good girl, Joanne,’ Dom’s voice was warm and comforting as he joined in.
With the people all working by day and by night,
McLoughlin put down his mug and took up the song:
They don’t grow potatoes and barley and wheat,
But there’s gangs of them digging for gold in the street
And the three of them singing together:
At least when I asked them that’s what I was told
So I just took a hand with the digging for gold
Dom put up his hand to silence him as Joanne finished the verse by herself, her voice stronger now:
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.
‘Yay girl, go girl,’ Dom stood up, clapping loudly. McLoughlin joined in and Joanne smiled and bowed as the doorbell rang once, twice, three times.
‘Come on,’ Dom took her by the hand. ‘Your chariot awaits. Here,’ he knelt and eased off her slippers, lifting each foot as she swayed and grabbed hold of him to balance. ‘Shoes, now what did we do with your shoes?’
‘These they?’ McLoughlin reached down for the pair of red sandals by his chair.
‘Just the job,’ Dom carefully strapped each one in turn around his wife’s thin ankles. ‘Now,’ he clambered to his feet, red in the face, breathing heavily. ‘Now, say goodbye to Mick.’
Joanne nodded and smiled. McLoughlin stood up. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth. She smelt of lavender.
‘Come on now, love, your friends are downstairs.’ Dom took her by the hand. ‘Won’t be a minute. It’s the minibus. The Alzheimer’s Society. Fantastic service. She loves it. Don’t you sweetheart?’ He put his face close to Joanne’s and she smiled again, a mechanical grimace. ‘Help yourself to more coffee, I’ll be back in a minute and then you can bring me up to speed on all the other business.’
McLoughlin heard the door slam behind them and the faint whine of the lift. He walked to the window. He looked down. Below, parked at the curb, was a blue minibus. McLoughlin watched as Dom handed Joanne over to a large woman wearing a nurse’s uniform. He watched as she was strapped into a seat, and the door slid closed. The bus moved off into the traffic.
He turned away and looked around. Love, a funny old thing really. Everyone used to think that Dom Hayes was one of the hard men. As tough as they came. Rumour was that he’d grown up in an orphanage. He’d clawed his way out of all that. Got himself an education. Got into the guards. Made a good life for himself and his wife and their four kids. Worked all the hours of the day. Up along the border when the Troubles were at their height. Saw friends die. Never spoke about it. And now, when he could have had a bit of fun, an easy retirement, golf, travel, a couple of security consultancies to bring in a few more bob, this had happened. Poor sweet Joanne. McLoughlin remembered. She was always a bit absent-minded, Dom had lots of funny stories about how she’d put her purse in the fridge, how she’d have her head in a book and forget to turn off the gas under the stew. How she’d lose her car keys and her house keys and phone him in a panic. But then the forgetfulness became something else, much more serious, much more profound.
The apartment’s front door banged open and slammed shut.
‘Now, where were we?’ Dom’s voice was loud and cheerful. ‘Would you like a drink? I’ve a nice bottle of red open. I always have a glass when Joanne goes off. You’ll join me, won’t you?’
They sat in companionable silence. McLoughlin sipped his wine. It was good. Italian.
‘So?’ Dom looked at him over the rim of his glass.
‘So, a mess. When the lads arrived I was covered in blood, running around the house like a madman, trying to find the keys to the front door.’ McLoughlin shifted from side to side.
‘Blood? Whose?’
‘Good question,’ McLoughlin held up his hand. The bandage was white and clean. ‘Bloody dog bit me, so there was my blood, and the rest came from the poor unfortunate judge. The dog had spread it around the house.’
‘Hmm, so much for the integrity of the crime scene.’ Dom smirked.
The integrity of the crime scene. One way or another he felt like an idiot. The guards from Dun Laoghaire banging on the door and he couldn’t open it. Until he spotted the bowl on the hall table, behind the vase of flowers, and the large bunch of keys in it.
‘Hold on, I’m coming,’ shouting at the top of his voice as he fumbled with the lock and the door burst open and before he could explain anything they had him in cuffs.
‘For God’s sake, it’s not me,’ he was shouting, ‘upstairs, look upstairs, front room and for fuck’s sake don’t let the dog out of the bathroom.’
They made him strip and put on a white suit. Everything from top to bottom, his clothes and shoes, all in an evidence bag. They brought in a dog handler who put the poodle into a cage and carted him out to the van. And eventually they took off his cuffs and let him sit down on a chair in the kitchen.
‘Wait, here,’ the uniformed guard said. ‘She’ll want to question you.’
‘She?’ His hand was really sore. He held it up. ‘Look, can I give this a wash? The dog, you know? It’ll probably go septic.’
‘Let him, his hand,’ a woman wearing jeans and a white shirt, her feet in bright pink runners, hurried into the room. Her hair was scooped back in a loose ponytail. Her face was bare of makeup. She looked familiar but he wasn’t sure he knew her name. She helped him to his feet and led him to the sink. ‘You OK?’ She turned on the tap and held his hand under the stream of water. It stung and he winced.
‘Ouch,’ he said loudly.
‘Ouch is it?’ She smiled broadly. ‘You poor wee man. Here,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Here, Harris, back here, you’ve a patient.’
Johnny Harris, the best forensic pathologist in the business. McLoughlin had known him for more years than he cared to count. Harris took his hand. He turned it around, into the light.
‘You don’t need stitches but you’ll need a tetanus shot and a course of antibiotics. I’ll call A&E. They’ll look after you.’ Harris patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re looking a bit green. Are you OK?’
‘Not really,’ McLoughlin could feel his knees beginning to sag. He slumped down on the chair again. ‘An awful mess up
there. Poor guy. An awful mess.’
‘Tell me,’ the woman sat down beside him. ‘I’m Min Sweeney, I don’t think we’ve met before. I’ve heard about you of course.’
‘Of course,’ Harris joined in, ‘everyone’s heard of Mick McLoughlin.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ McLoughlin waved his good hand. He looked at the woman again. He knew who she was. ‘Inspector Sweeney, isn’t it?’
She nodded and turned to Johnny Harris. ‘Anything to say about,’ she jerked her head towards the stairs.
‘Well, I’ll need to have a closer look but pretty obvious how he died,’ Harris put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Rigor’s set in so it’s been at least four hours. I’ll know more when I open him up.’
Min nodded. ‘OK, well the crime scene guys haven’t finished, so it’ll be a while longer. Anyone know anything about the family? We better get a liaison officer on the job. Declan,’ she shouted loudly in the direction of the stairs. ‘And now, you my friend,’ she looked at McLoughlin, ‘perhaps you can tell me what you were doing here.’
He explained. The dog, the barking, how he rang the bell, then tried to climb over the wall, falling through the rotten door into the garden, and then,
‘So, the back door was open, was it?’ She was taking notes.
‘Open, I didn’t realise at first. It looked like it was closed. It wasn’t ajar, but when I touched it, well it was definitely open.’ McLoughlin could feel the cold glass beneath his fingertips.
‘And what then? Did you go upstairs right away?’ she looked at him, her pen poised over her notebook.
He nodded. ‘Yeah, it was the dog you see. Frantic, he sounded. It did occur to me that something wasn’t quite right. But I thought, I suppose if I thought anything, old man, walked with a stick, a fall maybe?’
‘But first thing you did was to let the dog out? Why was that?’
Why was that? He tried to answer. ‘It was the noise. I didn’t think there’d be anything like,’ he paused, ‘I mean if I’d thought there’d be blood or something I wouldn’t have, but I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me.’
The Therapy House Page 5