The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Is that not the way you left it?’

  ‘Yeah, I left a clean plastic bag, but that was Friday. There’s no way it would still be clean on Monday. No way.’

  She walked out of the kitchen into the dining room and then into the small sitting room in the front of the house. She looked around, rubbing the carpet with her shoe. Then she moved back into the hall and opened the cupboard tucked in below the stairs. She pulled out the vacuum cleaner.

  ‘Now this, this isn’t right either.’ The flex trailed out in a pile behind her. ‘I’d never leave it like this. Look,’ she put her foot on one of the buttons on the front of the machine. As she pressed down, the flex shot in, coiling itself neatly.

  ‘And why did she look for the Hoover?’ McLoughlin shifted on the garden chair.

  ‘I asked her. She said you can always tell if a carpet’s been hoovered. Specially with the dog. Terrible shedder, she said.’

  ‘But the dog is black? Would you notice?’ McLoughlin raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Well,’ Min smiled and shrugged, ‘I probably wouldn’t, but my standards aren’t be that high. Whereas, Mrs Maguire now, she’s a pro. If she said the carpet had been hoovered I’d believe her.’

  ‘So, you checked the black bin outside of course.’

  ‘Of course. And it was empty. Emptied on Friday around here. So whatever was in the kitchen bin didn’t go into it.’

  McLoughlin sipped his coffee. ‘So, how you doing, on suspects?’

  ‘Suspects, Jesus,’ Min pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, ‘where do you start? Fifty years, mostly criminal law. First as a barrister, prosecuting.’

  ‘Not always,’ McLoughlin butted in, ‘I seem to remember he was pretty good at defending too.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but then you remember, when he moved to the bench. Special Criminal Court in the eighties and nineties. Paramilitary trials and then a lot of gangland. A heavy sentencer. A reputation for it.’ Min reached for another piece of salami. ‘What were you doing in Italy? Holiday?’

  ‘No, unfortunately,’ McLoughlin’s mouth turned down, ‘a bit of work. Naughty husband with young girlfriend and an angry wife.’

  ‘Ah, you’re into that are you? I was wondering. This,’ she looked around, ‘must be costing a packet.’

  ‘Not as much as you’d think. The builder was desperate for the job. Shaved his price to the bone. It’s an investment too. When the market goes back up, if I decide to sell I’ll make a few bob.’ He paused. ‘But the way it is, when you retire, you have to do something. I’ve never been a great one for the hobbies. Work, now that was my hobby.’

  ‘What about the sailing? I seem to remember you were into boats.’

  McLoughlin shrugged. ‘Used to be. Had my own boat once. When I get all this finished, maybe.’

  ‘Well,’ she sucked on another olive, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t taken up the law. There’s a crowd of former members down in the Law Library.’

  ‘God, yeah, are they not happy with their pensions? All the young barristers devilling hate them. My niece, Constance, my sister’s daughter, she’s trying to get by on the scraps from the table.’ McLoughlin leaned back, crossing his legs. ‘Those old guys, they should get out completely, leave it all behind.’

  ‘Like you?’ Min smiled at him.

  ‘Like me, look at me,’ he spread his arms wide. ‘A man is murdered in the house next door. I find the body. But am I interfering? Am I making suggestions? Am I trying to do your job for you?’

  ‘Wish you would,’ Min stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘Wish you fucking would.’ She picked up her bag.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Don’t go just yet.’ McLoughlin felt suddenly alone, useless. ‘Have you established time of death? Any of the neighbours hear the shot?’

  ‘Can’t be definitive about time of death. The weather’s so warm, it’s hard to tell. And so far no one’s sure about hearing anything. Everyone watching something, listening to something, talking to someone. All very busy.’

  ‘Door to door, anything come up?’

  ‘Yeah, actually. There’s an old lady across the square. Apparently she and a friend had a date with the judge on Sunday. Sherry and backgammon, if you please, at six. But she fell on her way over the road and ended up in hospital.’

  ‘And the friend, did she go?’

  ‘It’s a he actually. And he wasn’t very well, it seems. Had a bad headache. He didn’t go either.’ Min shifted from foot to foot, her bag heavy on her shoulder.

  ‘Bad luck, bad fucking luck for the judge.’ McLoughlin looked at her.

  She nodded. ‘Bad luck all right. Oh,’ she paused, ‘one other thing I suppose I can tell you.’

  ‘You can?’ McLoughlin stood too, picking up the dishes.

  ‘Yeah, we found the murder weapon.’ She shifted her bag on her shoulder.

  ‘You did? What was it?’

  ‘The Webley revolver .45. Daniel Hegarty’s gun.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Where it always was. In the cabinet in the judge’s sitting room.’

  ‘Cabinet? What cabinet was that?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Michael, don’t tell me you didn’t notice. The mahogany cabinet with the glass doors. His father’s cap and belt and gloves all nicely displayed.’ She smiled at him. ‘And his gun. His Webley revolver. It was there along with all the other stuff. We checked. It had been fired.’

  ‘But,’ McLoughlin spoke slowly, ‘surely it wouldn’t have been loaded.’

  ‘No, it probably wasn’t. But the drawer, in the bottom of the cabinet. One of those old boxes of Winchester bullets. Four of them left. And all that old cleaning stuff. The little bottle of Hoppes oil and the bronze brush, I’m sure you remember them.’ She looked at her phone and shifted her bag again. ‘The judge kept the gun in working order, for some strange, or maybe sentimental, reason.’

  ‘And was the drawer locked?’

  ‘It was, same key as the key to the cabinet. We found it in the desk in the front room downstairs. Or at least Mrs Maguire found it. She said it was always there. No one was allowed touch it.’ She moved towards the door.

  McLoughlin put up his hand. ‘So, fingerprints? Yeah?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing, everything clean as a whistle. We don’t have the ballistics report yet, but so far, it looks like the judge was killed by his father’s gun. Single shot to the back of the neck.’

  ‘Not by the blows to his head?’

  ‘Mick, did you not notice?’ She began to move towards the door.

  ‘Notice?’ He followed her.

  ‘The pattern of blood spatter. The fine mist on the carpet. Caused by the gunshot wound. If he’d still been alive when he suffered the blows to his head the blood would have covered the walls.’ She smiled, turned away, waved her hand. ‘See you.’

  After she’d gone McLoughlin walked down the steps into his garden. The grass was long and neglected. The flower beds on either side were overgrown. Nettles, dandelion, dock, all flourishing. He stopped by the remains of a green house, panes of glass broken and missing, then walked towards the sycamores which hung over the end wall. His gate stood open, hanging off its hinges. He pushed through. The lane here was shaded, dirty. An abandoned washing machine and fridge. A smell of urine and a pile of empty Dutch Gold beer cans. He turned to his left. The gate to the judge’s house was made of metal. He pushed. It stood firm, bolted from the inside. He stepped back and scanned the ground. No rain for days. He squatted down. No footprints here, just a pile of dried leaves.

  Killed by his father’s gun. Daniel Hegarty, a teenager when he joined Michael Collins’ men. His exploits, the stuff of legend. Daring escapes, ambushing the British army, knocking off spies and informers as they slept beside their wives. Falling out with Collins
after the Treaty was signed. Going on the run. More daring exploits during the Civil War, more killing. But it all came good in the end. Dan Hegarty, hero of the War of Independence, hard man of the Civil War, rewarded by his grateful country with a series of good jobs. Running the electricity service, the bus and train company, on the boards of banks, building societies, hospitals, universities. Respected and admired by all. And his eldest son, John Hegarty, retired Supreme Court Judge. Respected and admired by all. Dan Hegarty died in his bed in his early nineties. A state funeral. Guard of honour, the ‘Last Post’ played over his grave. And his son? Shot in the back of his head. Hands and feet tied behind him. An execution. That was how it seemed. Killed with his father’s gun. Now, why was that?

  They knocked at Samuel’s door just as he was finishing the washing-up. He took his time. He wiped down the countertop and hung the tea towel on the back of a chair to dry. He took off his rubber gloves and put on his leather ones. He checked himself in the mirror in the hall. He straightened his tie, and turned towards the front door. He could see two figures through the frosted glass panel. He took a deep breath, put out one hand and twisted the lock.

  It was a man and a woman who had climbed the stairs to Samuel’s flat. Hurried along the second floor walkway to his door. Number 28, the brass numbers, shiny. She seemed to be in charge. She introduced herself. Samuel didn’t catch the name. He was nervous, his stomach churning. They pushed past him through the front door. At least everything was tidy. Neat and tidy. They wouldn’t be able to fault him for that.

  ‘You don’t mind if we sit, do you?’ The woman smiled at him. She fanned herself with her hand. ‘It’s hot today, isn’t it?’

  She sat on one of his small armchairs. The man, who was tall and muscular, lounged against the wall.

  The woman waved a hand towards the other small chair. ‘Sit, do, sorry we’ve made ourselves at home.’

  Samuel said nothing. He had learned in these circumstances it was best to say nothing. He slid into the chair and looked down at his shoes. Wiped with a damp cloth to remove the spots of the judge’s blood, then rubbed with black polish and shined. Wearing different trousers today. The old ones ripped to pieces and dumped in a bin behind a restaurant down by the seafront.

  Now he kept his gaze averted. It was best not to look directly at these people. They could see things in his eyes, he knew that.

  The women opened her notebook. ‘We know from what Miss Gibbon has told us, you know Miss Gibbon, don’t you?’

  ‘Miss Gibbon?’ For a moment he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Her name is Gwen, I think.’ The woman looked down at her notes, then up at him again. He glanced in her direction, just for a moment. Her eyes were very blue, like hard blue stones. They reminded him of a doll, one his mother had when he was a small boy. He put his hands up to his eyes and covered them.

  ‘You’re wearing gloves. Are you not too hot, a day like today? And you’ve a sweater on too. Are you feeling all right? Do you need something?’ Her voice sounded concerned, but he didn’t believe her. He moved his hands to the top of his head, clasped them tightly and tried to disappear.

  ‘Look, Mr Dudgeon, sorry, perhaps we should start again.’ She cleared her throat. ‘My name is Min Sweeney. Detective Inspector Min Sweeney. This is my colleague Garda Declan Murphy. OK?’

  He didn’t reply. He wrapped his arms tightly around his body.

  ‘We’ve come to talk to you about last Sunday. We understand that you and Miss Gibbon were due to visit the late judge, John Hegarty, at about six o’clock that evening. Miss Gibbon didn’t go because she fell. Did you go to the judge’s house? You see,’ she paused. He felt her hand on his arm. He shrank back. He didn’t like strangers touching him. ‘You see, we think the judge died sometime in the early evening. So it’s very important, if you were there. For whatever reason. If you could tell us, if you saw anything, at all.’

  He could hear her voice. On and on. See anything. Hear anything. Know anything. Where was he? What was he doing at that time? He was cold, very cold. He could feel the life draining from him. He kept his eyes closed tightly. He couldn’t open them now. He wasn’t sure what he would see.

  ‘Look, Mr Dudgeon, please. If you don’t answer my questions, I’m afraid we will have to take you to the station.’ She made as if to stand. He could hear her shoes on the lino on the floor.

  He moved then. Hands down, head up, eyes open, feet braced.

  ‘I didn’t go to the judge’s house. I had a migraine. I couldn’t go out. I get nauseous. I get photophobia when I get a headache like that.’ He looked at her, quickly, then looked away. She was sitting forward in her chair. Her blue eyes stared.

  ‘Did you contact the judge or Miss Gibbon to say you wouldn’t be going?’ She tapped her pen on her knee.

  He shook his head. His mouth was dry. He swallowed.

  ‘I was in too much pain. I have pills, so I took them. I went to bed. I closed the curtains. Eventually I went to sleep. I didn’t wake up until the next morning.’ He lay down. His head was bursting with pain. He pressed the ice to his left temple. And eventually he slept.

  The woman nodded and smiled. ‘Good, that’s good. Thank you for telling us.’

  She’d go now. He knew she’d go. But she didn’t move. She wanted more. Had anyone seen him that day? Did he speak to anyone that day? How long had he lived here? Where was he from? How well did he know the judge? Did he work for him? What kind of work did he do? He remembered. What to do when you’re being questioned. Tell them only as much as they want. Don’t volunteer information. So he answered her questions. He had lived in this little flat for four years. He was from England, Ashford, a small town in Kent. He met the judge through Miss Gibbon. They shared a passion for backgammon. They played regularly. He didn’t know whether anyone had seen him that day. He was in such pain. He had gone to bed. He had slept.

  ‘And,’ again the look, the eyes like the eyes of his mother’s doll. Adalina, she was called. She lay on his mother’s pillow and stared up at him. ‘We understand, again from Miss Gibbon, that the judge was instrumental in you getting this apartment. Is that right?’

  He nodded. ‘He helped me with the application process. I wasn’t sure what to do. He was very kind.’

  ‘Kind? Indeed he was.’ She stood up. She looked around. ‘You were lucky. You’ve a lovely place.’ He could feel the hard blue stare. It bit through the walls, through the floor, into the small space beneath the boards in the cupboard where he kept the dustpan and brush. Where the painting lay, wrapped in a blanket. With the judge’s laptop, stuffed full of secrets. And the hammer. He’d washed it with bleach and scrubbed it but he could still see the blood from the judge’s head. He closed his eyes for a moment. He lifted his hands.

  ‘Your gloves. Why the gloves?’ Curiosity perhaps, just plain human curiosity.

  ‘I have a condition. Reynaud’s syndrome it’s called. I get very cold. My hands turn white. My fingers are useless.’ He tried to keep his voice neutral. Tell her nothing she doesn’t ask.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard of that. So you wear the gloves all the time, do you?’ She picked up her bag.

  He nodded. ‘They’re like a second skin to me now.’ Soft, smooth, the leather cleaving to what lay beneath.

  ‘OK, just one more thing. We understand you have keys to the judge’s house.’

  He nodded. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and pulled them out.

  ‘If you don’t mind I’ll take them.’ She reached towards him. He held them by their ring. They swung gently to and fro.

  ‘Thanks. We’ll leave it at that, for the time being.’ She reached in her bag and pulled out a card. She put it on the narrow mantelpiece. ‘We will want to take your fingerprints and swab for your DNA and if you think of anything, anything at all, please call.’ She held out her hand. She took his. She squeezed. Gent
ly at first, then her grip tightened. He could feel her skin through the leather, against his. He felt sick.

  He closed the door behind them and locked it. Fingerprints, swabs, he felt sick when he thought about it. He pressed his face to the frosted glass panel. They had gone. He stepped backwards into the hall. The floorboard gave beneath his weight. He opened the cupboard. He looked down. He’d copied the judge’s keys. He’d put them with his other treasures. Hidden away. Nothing here to show what lay beneath. Nothing at all.

  The pile of flowers on the footpath outside the judge’s house was growing. It had begun slowly. A small bunch left by one of the old ladies from across the square. McLoughlin recognised marigolds, cornflowers and sweet pea. And every time McLoughlin went through his gate he noticed more. Lots of lilies, the big pink ones called Regale, their scent rising in the warm air. His mother had hated them, hated their cloying smell.

  The guard on duty had become an unofficial flower arranger. Taking the bouquets and placing them carefully, then, McLoughlin noticed, standing back to assess the overall look and moving some of them around. Putting the smaller bunches to the front and arranging the lilies so they draped gracefully against the railings.

  McLoughlin bent down to look more closely at the cards shoved into the bouquets. There was no doubting the esteem in which the judge was held. Expressions of shock and horror at the manner of his death from some; sadness and affectionate memories from others. As he straightened a car pulled up to the kerb. He watched the passengers get out. Three men and a woman. Judge Hegarty’s children. The oldest, Ciarán, was a well-known cancer specialist. Media happy, McLoughlin thought, always on the news: this was wrong and that was wrong and there should be more of this and more of that. The others: one a barrister, following in his father’s footsteps. The third son, a property developer, probably bankrupt now like the rest. And the judge’s daughter, equally well known, a journalist with a column in one of the tabloids. He’d spoken to her often, when he was still working. She’d got hold of his mobile number and she’d ring to ask for updates. He didn’t like that. It was an intrusion. But she had a way with her. Somehow she always made him laugh and sometimes he gave her a quote. An innocuous, harmless piece of information transformed by a strange kind of alchemy into a striking headline.