I Saw You

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Mary,’ Margaret had stood up and followed her, ‘don’t go like that. Wait. Phone me if you’re not coming home. Do you hear me? Phone me.’ But even as she spoke she heard the front door slam.

  She heard it slam now as she opened the back door into the garden and a draught rushed through the house. She’d thought she had closed it, but the lock was loose and sometimes it slipped. Another job to be done, she thought, as she walked out into the sun. Grass to be cut, the beds to be weeded, the hedges to be trimmed. The place was a mess. Her father would have been appalled, if he could have seen it. She would deal with it tomorrow. She would deal with everything tomorrow. Today she was too tired. An old wooden deckchair with a canvas seat was opened out on the flagged terrace. She sat down on it and lay back. Her fingers reached beneath it and found a glass of wine. She lifted it to her mouth and drank. She drained the glass and put it back carefully on the stone. Then she closed her eyes. Her head lolled to one side and her breathing slowed until it was barely audible. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to do what had to be done. Or maybe the next day, or the next or the next. It was only the beginning of July. Nearly a month to go until the anniversary of Mary’s death. So much to think about. So many memories. But for now there was the comfort of sleep.

  THREE

  McLoughlin woke with a jump. He sat up straight, heart pounding, mouth filling with saliva. Christ, he felt bad. He got up slowly and staggered as his weight shifted forward from the bed. He reached out and grabbed hold of the edge of the chest of drawers and saw his face in the crutch mirror on top of it. Not a pretty sight. He stepped over his clothes, which were scattered on the bedroom floor, and pulled his dressing-gown from the back of the door. Light flooded down the corridor, making his eyes smart and his head pound. He stumbled into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He needed orange juice with ice, followed by painkillers and a pint of water. He slid back the glass doors and stepped out on to the terrace, then slumped on the bench and drank deeply. Another beautiful day. Not that he cared much. He wasn’t going anywhere except back to bed. The glory of retirement. No one to answer to.

  He closed his eyes. It had been a good night. He had drunk far too much, of course, but so had everyone else. He didn’t think he’d committed too many indiscretions. He’d been tempted to tell the assistant commissioner who’d come along to do the honours what an arsehole he really was. But he’d bitten his lip and smiled and said nothing. He’d accepted the cheque and the presentation of the Waterford crystal decanter and the half-dozen glasses and stood up and thanked them all for being there. He’d told a few funny stories from way back, and remembered to single out for special mention the lads he’d stayed friends with ever since Templemore. He could sense there was a certain expectation in the air. What would he say about Finney? Finney, who’d fucked up the detention of Jimmy Fitzsimons, Finney, who’d been the reason that Fitzsimons got off. And Finney, who somehow, through some incredible string-pulling, arse-licking and cute hooring, had managed to streak up the ranks, way past McLoughlin, his old boss, and was now poised to make chief superintendent within the year.

  McLoughlin had wondered if he’d show up. It would have been just like the fucker. He wasn’t the only one who’d been expecting him either. He’d seen the looks on some of the faces and heard the muttered conversations. It would have been something to talk about for years to come. Finney and McLoughlin, the young pretender and the old dog, facing each other for the last time. But in the event Finney didn’t appear. It was just as well. It wasn’t only that McLoughlin didn’t have the energy for the fight. There was also the fact of the body that had been found a few years ago in the cottage in Ballyknockan. Finney had been put in charge of the investigation. He hadn’t got far with it. A post-mortem had established that it was a young male approximately six feet in height. Cause of death was dehydration and starvation. A search through the missing persons on file revealed no matches with the dental records. A sample was taken from the remains for DNA testing. But it was such a slow process that Finney got impatient. He found a forensic archaeologist. She took the bones of the face and head and made, first, a model, then from that a computerized image. McLoughlin remembered the consternation in the office when the email arrived.

  ‘Jesus, would you look at this? I don’t fucking believe it. Hey, where’s McLoughlin? He needs to see this too.’

  McLoughlin had been waiting for something like this ever since he’d snapped the padlock shut and walked away from the shed door that cold, dark night. Sooner or later that door would open again and Jimmy would be found.

  Now he sat beside Finney and stared at the screen. ‘What do you want me to do? Talk to his mother?’ He tried to sound helpful.

  Finney stood up. ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My guys will follow it up. I just wanted you to confirm my identification that the body is that of Jimmy Fitzsimons.’

  ‘OK.’ McLoughlin’s voice was neutral. ‘Yes, from what I can see, from the reconstruction done by Professor Williams, that is Jimmy Fitzsimons. Do you want it in writing?’

  McLoughlin drained his glass of orange juice. He stood up and walked back into the kitchen. There was a large bottle of San Pellegrino in the cupboard. He untwisted the metal cap. Bubbles rushed upwards to freedom. He filled his glass, and added a handful of ice with a squeeze of lemon, then put the bottle into the fridge. He walked outside and sat down again. The sea looked so beautiful today. When his hangover lifted, he’d head down the hill to the club and see if he could get some sailing. It was the height of the racing season. There’d be bound to be a berth for him somewhere.

  And then he remembered. There was something he’d said he’d do. What was it? Oh, shit, it was all coming back. Why did he let himself get talked into doing favours? It must have been the drink. That wonderful feeling of expansive happiness that overtook him after the third pint. ‘Of course, anything you want, I’ll do it. Of course I will, don’t worry yourself. I’ll look after it.’ He always meant it at the time. It was only afterwards that he realized what a mess he’d got himself into. He struggled to remember. What kind of a mess was this one? He stood up and stretched. He’d go back to bed now before he began to fret about it.

  But as he lay down, the pillow accepting his aching head, his phone beeped. Twice. He picked it up and flicked open his messages. There were two. Both from Tony Heffernan. Of course. Now he remembered.

  ‘You’d be doing her a huge favour.’ Heffernan had cornered him. ‘She’s devastated. She’s really in a bad way. Now you’re officially retired you could do it for her. Just a few basic enquiries. Nothing too taxing. You know who she is, don’t you?’ Heffernan had moved closer and was practically whispering in his ear.

  ‘No, I don’t know who she is. What did you say her name was?’ The noise in the bar was rising. It was the after-dinner crush. They were all loosened up now. Plenty of wine with dinner. A brandy or two, and now a few more pints before the wives dragged them home to bed.

  ‘Sally Spencer. She was married to James de Paor. You remember him, of course. The barrister.’

  ‘De Paor, the senior counsel? Of course I remember him. I came up against him a few times. He was a savage. How do you know her?’ McLoughlin was interested now.

  ‘Janet, my wife – my second wife.’ Heffernan grinned with pleasure as he said her name and gave her the title. ‘She went to school with her. One of those Protestant boarding-schools. All gym slips and hockey. Anyway, Sally had a hard time. Her first husband died of cancer when he was very young leaving her with two small kids and no money. She opened up a little shop selling knick-knacks, ornaments, that sort of thing. Just about keeping the wolf from the door. Then she met de Paor. He’d just got a divorce from his wife. Not a real one, of course. One of those English not-quite-legal ones. But, anyway, they hit it off big-time and the next thing she’s gone to London with your man and they’re married. Everyone, all her old friends, her family, was very surprised.’

  ‘I’m surprised.
She’s a Protestant, you say? And she marries de Paor, the friend and protector of every Provo on the run?’

  ‘Yeah, it was a bit of a shock. Anyway, to cut a long story short, you know de Paor died, about twenty years ago? Drowned in the lake where he had that beautiful house. In Wicklow.’

  McLoughlin nodded. ‘Is that what happened? I kind of remember.’

  ‘Yeah, it was some sort of a boating accident. Anyway, poor Sally, her daughter, Marina, drowned there too, just a couple of weeks ago. From what I know, Johnny Harris did the post-mortem and he reckoned it was suicide. And she left a note. But Sally’s convinced it wasn’t suicide. So, I was wondering . . .’ Heffernan’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Wondering?’

  ‘Just go and see her, Michael. She’s a lovely woman. You’ll like her. She’s in bits. Janet had lunch with her the other day. She says Sally can’t believe it was suicide. She says her daughter wasn’t the type.’

  ‘Tony, come on. That’s what they all say.’ McLoughlin rocked back on his heels. ‘No one thinks their son or daughter is suicidal.’

  ‘You know that. I know that. But Sally doesn’t. Please, do it for me. I can’t get involved. Not officially. Go and see her, have a chat with her. Show some interest. Maybe that’s all it will take. Someone to be nice to her.’

  Nice, oh dear. McLoughlin drained his drink and signalled to the barman for another. So it had come to this. He was nice now. A shoulder to cry on, a friendly face, a purveyor of sympathy. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, as he was about to succumb to a deep, alcohol-induced gloom, his old friend Johnny Harris had got to his feet, his pathologist’s scrubs swapped for a suit in Prince of Wales check that must have belonged to his father, and delivered a spirited rendition of ‘What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor’, complete with extemporized verses, which raised a few eyebrows and cheered McLoughlin up. After that it was all a bit of a blur.

  But now there was the text message to confirm his status as nice guy, do anything for you kind of guy, all round good guy.

  THANKS FOR THE GREAT NIGHT.

  SALLY WILL CALL YOU LATER TODAY.

  SEE YOU SOON.

  He switched his phone to silent and let it drop on to the floor. He rolled over on his side. He’d make an excuse when the woman phoned. The last thing he needed was another grieving mother. They were trouble. That much was for sure.

  FOUR

  Margaret couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was because the nights were so light. The sky never seemed to darken completely. It lost its colour gradually so it ceased to be bright blue and became pale and wan until just before dawn when it turned a soft dove grey. But perhaps it was nothing to do with the brightness of the sky. Perhaps it was because she didn’t want to waste any of the time left to her, here in this house, which held so many memories.

  She had made up a bed in the small room overlooking the garden where she had slept when she was a child and where Mary had slept for those six weeks before she died. In the hot press under the stairs she found some plastic bags that held sheets and pillowcases, eiderdowns and blankets. They were clean, although the smell of mothballs still lingered in the creases where they had been folded. It was good-quality linen. It would last at least one lifetime, her mother had often said, as she sniffed at the polycottons and synthetics, all the ‘non-irons’ and ‘easy cares’, that the shops had begun to offer. Of course, she was right. Margaret had inherited her rigid attitude towards natural fibres. Mary had laughed at her. But she had come back from staying with her friends and confessed that the sheets didn’t feel right.

  ‘They’re yucky on your skin, Mum, aren’t they? And they don’t have that nice smell our sheets have.’

  She had wanted to wrap Mary in one of her mother’s sheets before she was placed in her coffin. She had wanted to swaddle her tightly the way she had seen nurses wrap the dead. It had always seemed humane and dignified, the crisp white cotton, folded over and around, keeping the body intact, its integrity guaranteed. But the undertaker had prevailed and Mary had been clothed in her favourite pink dress. As if it mattered. Nothing could disguise the damage done to her before death. The shearing of her hair. The bruises to her eyes and mouth. The marks on her neck. And beneath the dress, the burns, the scars where he had cut her breasts and stomach with the sharp blade of a Stanley knife. And the internal wounds he had inflicted on her.

  She had thought that these images would fade with time. But they hadn’t. Sometimes at night when she closed her eyes they were there, as fresh and as raw as they had been the first time she saw them. And they were even more so now as she lay in the narrow bed, her head on her old pillow. Mary had been conceived in this bed too. That weekend all those years ago when Margaret’s parents had gone away and Patrick Holland had come to spend the evening with her. She had cooked for him, and after dinner they had sat at either side of the fire, like an old married couple, drinking and talking, and then as the flames died down they had gone upstairs to her room and lain under the eiderdown, still talking until it was time for him to go home to his wife.

  She hadn’t asked him to stay. He had got out of bed and begun to dress. Then he had stopped, looked down at her and, in a rush, pulled back the quilt and lain beside her, his hands grabbing at her body as if he would never touch her again. Afterwards she had slept so deeply that it was midday before she woke.

  She got up now. There was no point in lying staring at the ceiling, all those memories fighting for attention. She walked downstairs into the kitchen. She filled the kettle. Then she sat down at the table. Her laptop was open, its screen dark. She touched the keys and waited for its welcoming purr. Her hands formed themselves into their familiar shape as she logged on, put in her password and waited for her emails to brighten the screen. Here was good news from Australia. The estate agent, Damien Baxter, had received an offer for her house. And another serious buyer was interested too. He’d let her know when they had reached their limit, but for the time being he was keeping an open mind. She’d bought the house from his father, Don, when she’d arrived in Noosa nine years ago. He was a nice man, polite and thoughtful, and his son had inherited his father’s quiet, unassuming competence. She hadn’t much money to spend. It had been the worst time to sell her New Zealand property. But she had her savings. A sense of thrift inherited from her father. A nest egg put by over the years. And Don had found her the house and got her a good deal. It was rundown and neglected, but he’d recommended his cousin, Jeff, who was a builder and between them they had transformed it. White walls and native-wood floors. A large open-plan kitchen and dining room. Her own small bedroom and bathroom. And four rooms to be rented. Bed and breakfast for passing backpackers, tourists, nature-lovers who wanted to spend some time in the Queensland rainforest. The house was always full. Word of mouth did it. Her name and address, passed from person to person along the trail.

  ‘Lovely place. Very clean. Simple, but nice. Great food. As much as you can eat for breakfast. Scrambled eggs to die for. Good coffee and tea. And she makes her own bread and muffins and scones too. She’ll give you a lunch to take on the road that would last you for two days.’

  And for a while it had been good. She had been content. But sometimes there would be a face that would remind her. And she would wonder. And then she began to read the Irish newspapers on line. She didn’t want to. She wanted to be as remote as possible. Far, far away from everything to do with home. But she was drawn to them. So easy now with the Internet. So instant. And there it was one day. Five years ago. A photograph of the cottage in Ballyknockan. A body found. No idea as to its identity. And then slowly, gradually, inevitably. More and more information. Name and age. And then the rest. The girl’s murder. The suspect. Then the trial. The shock of its sudden ending. A smudgy photo of Mary from her student ID card. Her own face, a photograph taken at the funeral, her grief so overwhelming that she barely recognized herself. A Garda investigation set up. Detective Inspector Finney in charge. Finney of all people. Finney, whose incom
petence had given her what she wanted. The chance to take her own revenge on the man who had destroyed her life.

  She checked the websites daily, but the investigation into the death of Jimmy Fitzsimons soon disappeared. Six months after the finding of his body a couple of paragraphs stated that ‘Garda sources’ had admitted they had not made any progress towards finding out what had happened to him. The case would, of course, remain open, pending further information.

  Then, a few months later:

  The death has taken place of the well-known barrister and senior counsel Patrick Holland. Mr Holland died while on holiday in Marbella. He collapsed while swimming yesterday at approximately 2 p.m. He was rushed to hospital but was pronounced dead on arrival. A post-mortem will be held to determine the cause of death, but it appears that he died from a heart-attack. He is survived by his wife, Crea, and his three children, Daniel, Alice and Patrick.

  Why had she not known that Patrick was dead? Why had her heart carried on beating after his had stopped? She checked the date again – what had she been doing that day? – she worked out the time difference. Patrick had died at two in the afternoon on 14 June in the swimming-pool of his villa outside Marbella. There was an eight-hour difference. It would have been ten p.m. in Eumundi. Summer in Spain. Winter in Australia. Cool but still sunny. She looked back over her diary for the day in question. All her rooms were full. An English couple had arrived that evening. She had cooked dinner for them and sold them a couple of bottles of wine to go with it. The other guests, a boy from Sydney, two German girls and an American zoologist, had gone to Noosa for dinner. They got back around midnight. She had stayed up with them, drunk some more wine. The American was curious about her. She had fended off his questions. He was good-looking in that American-academic way. It would have been easy. He was leaving the next day. No strings, just the comfort of a warm body to get her through another night.