Everything changed. Nothing the same again.
They walked along by the railway line, up and over the metal steps. Vanessa was silent.
‘Your father . . .’ Margaret began.
‘Yes?’
‘He had been married before he married your mother, is that right?’
‘He was married and he had a son, Dominic, my half-brother.’
‘And what happened to his wife?’
Vanessa sighed. ‘Well, from what I know, she was, is, a difficult person. Apparently she has all kinds of problems. According to my mother she’s been mentally ill for years. I’m not sure exactly what’s wrong with her but apparently she was in and out of hospital all the time she was married to my father. Anyway, again, all I know is what my mother has told me, and that is that my father divorced her. Afterwards he met my mother and they got married and I was born.’
‘And how did he die?’ Margaret glanced at Vanessa. ‘That is, if you don’t mind me asking. If it’s not too . . .’
‘No, no.’ Vanessa’s voice was suddenly loud. ‘No, really, it’s fine. It’s good to be able to talk about it. He drowned in the lake. He and Marina were out in a boat and there was an accident. She tried to save him, but he couldn’t swim and he died before she could get help. And then everything was different.’
Margaret said nothing. She waited.
‘Because after he died his first wife, Helena, challenged the divorce. She said that he had lied about where he lived. He had said his domicile was in England. So she went to court and the court decided that the divorce was invalid. So my mother wasn’t his legal wife. And therefore I wasn’t his legitimate child. I was illegitimate. A bastard.’ Her small face was very white.
‘It’s just a word, Vanessa. It means nothing. You were still his daughter, still his flesh and blood.’ Margaret put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her.
‘But it meant a lot to my mother. And my father hadn’t changed his will after he supposedly married her. So my mother inherited nothing. My father had been very wealthy. He had a couple of houses. He had investments, savings, all kinds of stuff. And she got nothing.’ The tears were seeping from her eyes, trickling down on either side of her mouth. ‘But I was lucky. The law changed not long after I was born and I was recognized as his heir, like Dominic. So my mother was able to get maintenance for me. And in two weeks’ time, when I’m eighteen, I’m going to inherit part of his property. There’s a little cottage up by the lake, and apparently it’s going to be mine. Not that I care. Not that I want it. I don’t want anything that came from him. I don’t like what he did. If his first wife was ill, he shouldn’t have tried to get rid of her. It doesn’t seem right to me.’
They had reached the café by the church. There were tables outside. Margaret gestured to the chairs and they sat down.
Margaret spoke slowly. She picked her words carefully. ‘Sometimes it can be hard for a child to understand the world their parents inhabit. Sometimes it’s not as straightforward, not as cut and dried. There’s a lovely book, The Go-Between by a man called L. P. Hartley. Do you know it?’
Vanessa shook her head.
‘Well, it’s about a boy who becomes involved in a secret relationship between two people he loves. He takes messages from one to the other, but he doesn’t realize what’s going on between them. And when he finds out he’s devastated. The opening lines are “The past is another country. They do things differently there.” And I’m afraid it’s true.’
Vanessa looked at her, then away. She said nothing. Margaret took her hand. ‘Don’t judge your father and mother too harshly. The one thing you can be sure is that he loved you and she still loves you. Of that there can be no doubt.’
Vanessa didn’t answer. They sat in silence. Margaret gazed past her towards the church. She would go there when they had finished. Back to the church where she had first met Jimmy, that day of thunderstorms, when lightning had cut through the sky. And he had slashed her blouse from neck to waist, tried to terrify her, the way he had terrified Mary. But she had stood up to him. And he had seen her for what she was. She would push through the heavy wooden door, and sit, bathed in the light from the stained-glass windows. And she would ask for forgiveness. Perhaps she, too, would not be judged too harshly. Perhaps the Lord would make His face to shine upon her. And remain with her. Always.
TWELVE
She was a busy woman, Gwen Simpson, PhD. McLoughlin had phoned a number of times and got the answering-machine. Each time he’d left a message. She hadn’t responded. Now he was standing outside the house in Fitzwilliam Square where she had her office. He scanned the brass plates and pressed the bell beside her name. As he did so, the door opened. A man stood in front of him. He was very small and stocky, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. He was putting on a motorbike helmet.
‘Hold on a minute, if you don’t mind.’ McLoughlin took a step forward and put out his hand to stop the door from swinging shut.
‘You looking for someone?’ The man stood in his way, doing up the strap. The helmet gleamed in the bright sunshine.
‘Yeah, um Dr Simpson – she’s here, isn’t she?’
The man pointed to the brass plate. ‘That’s her. First floor at the front.’ He flipped down the visor. McLoughlin’s face loomed back at him.
‘Thanks.’
The man turned away and McLoughlin pushed past him into the hall. He heard the heavy door slam behind him. There was silence and a sense of cold. He shivered and headed for the stairs.
The receptionist said that Dr Simpson wouldn’t be able to see him. She was fully booked for the whole day. McLoughlin said he wasn’t in a hurry. He would wait. He sat down on the deep, comfortable sofa and sifted through the magazines. They were new and unthumbed. There was even a recent edition of Classic Boats. He turned to an article on the restoration of the Roaringwater Bay fishing fleet. Next time he met Johnny Harris he’d surprise him with his expertise. He sat back, crossed his legs and began to read.
It was after five by the time the receptionist came to get him. He’d spent a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. He’d helped himself to coffee from a large Thermos-type jug and biscuits from the selection on offer. He’d watched a succession of Dr Simpson’s clients come and go. Most were women. Most were young and obviously affluent. All were clean and shiny. He couldn’t imagine how any of them had problems they might need to share with the so far unseen Dr Simpson. The receptionist kept herself busy. There was a little alcove behind her desk. She had a kettle there and every now and then she would boil it and make herself tea. Or open the little fridge on the shelf and take out a bottle of mineral water, place it on a tray with a glass, ice and a slice of lemon and carry them in to Dr Simpson. It was a neat arrangement, McLoughlin thought. A very good use of space. A lesson in ergonomics or whatever it was called.
And then his name was called. He pulled himself up out of the softness of the sofa and stretched.
‘She’ll see you now, Inspector McLoughlin.’ The receptionist glanced pointedly at her watch, then came over to collect his dirty coffee cups and straighten the heap of magazines.
Dr Simpson’s office was a beautiful room. It had classic Georgian proportions. A high ceiling with an elaborate rose and cornice. Two long sash windows, one of them open a few inches at the bottom. A crystal chandelier swung gently in the breeze, making a soft musical sound. The walls were painted a dull grey-green and there was a deep carpet to match. Dr Simpson was seated at a desk. It was beautiful too. Modern, simple, a wide piece of polished wood with elegant iron legs. Her head was bent over a pile of papers. She didn’t seem to register his presence. She carried on writing. He swayed uneasily from side to side. He cleared his throat and looked around. A low couch was pushed against the far wall. It was covered with smooth red fabric. He had a sudden desire to surrender himself, to lie back, close his eyes and talk. Let it all flow out.
‘Sit down, why don’t you, Inspector McLoughlin?’ she said. She still hadn’t
raised her head.
He did as he was told, slipping on to one of the upright chairs facing her. He scrutinized the top of her head. Her hair was grey, pulled back into a no-nonsense bun. She was wearing a cream wrap-around blouse, which showed a small amount of pale cleavage. Neat gold discs shone from her ear-lobes and her hands were well cared-for, the nails painted red, and a couple of large gold rings on her third and little fingers.
He recognized some of the paintings on the walls. There was a Norah McGuinness abstract and something that might have been a Mainie Jellett. And was that a Le Brocquy? It was small but the style was unmistakable. There’s money in the therapy business, he thought.
‘So,’ she sat up straight, and laid her pen neatly on her pad, ‘Inspector McLoughlin, you’re a very persistent man. I’m surprised you have the time to hang around in my waiting room all afternoon when a phone call would have done.’
‘I tried that,’ he smiled at her, ‘but I wasn’t getting anywhere so I thought a bit of direct action was called for.’
‘Right.’ She leaned back in her chair and it swung slowly. ‘I see.’ There was silence in the room, broken only by the tinkle of the chandelier.
‘It’s nice.’ He gestured above his head. ‘Very soothing.’
‘You think so? Some people find it irritating.’ Her long, thin face was without expression. He noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lines around her mouth. Unlike her clients she didn’t seem to need the ameliorating effect of make-up.
‘Wind chimes are irritating. It’s the size of the pieces of metal. But those glass drops are so tiny and delicate. Their sound is much more subtle. I think anyway.’
‘Mmm.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Perhaps. But you didn’t come here to talk to me about sound and its effect on the emotions, did you, Inspector McLoughlin? You told my receptionist you wanted to see me about Marina Spencer. I’m surprised the guards have so much time to spend on her death. I’ve already spoken at length to Inspector Brian Dooley. I understood he was in charge of the case.’
‘Yeah, well, he is.’ McLoughlin shifted awkwardly. Suddenly he was very uncomfortable. ‘But sometimes someone else is asked to take a look, you know. A fresh pair of eyes and all that.’
‘Fresh pair of eyes. Mmm. Jackie phoned Brian Dooley. He was surprised that you were here. He said that not only were you not involved in the case, but that you had retired recently. He said something unrepeatable about you. Funny but unrepeatable.’
There was silence. Even the chandelier was silent.
‘OK. OK, I hold up my hands.’ He squirmed. For the first time since he had come into the room Dr Simpson smiled. The effect was transforming. The years fell away. She became young and attractive. ‘I’m not officially involved in this whole thing. But I’m a friend of Marina’s mother. She’s very upset.’
‘Understandably.’ The smile had gone.
‘She doesn’t believe that Marina’s death was suicide. So I said I’d make a few enquiries. See if I could shed any light on what happened. I saw in her diary that she was visiting you regularly. So I thought maybe you might be able to tell me something of what was going on in her life.’ He waited. Would the smile come back? It didn’t.
‘Look, Inspector, Mister, Whatever-you-are, I’m bound by a code of ethics. I gave some information to Inspector Dooley because I felt it would help him. I have no such obligation to you. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve no more right to know anything about Marina Spencer than any Joe Bloggs outside in the street. Now,’ she paused to let the weight of her words make their mark, ‘it’s getting late. I’ve had a long day so perhaps you might take yourself off?’ She stood up.
‘Look,’ he stood too, ‘I’m sorry I tried to pull the wool over your eyes. I just wanted to ask you, was Marina hiding something? Was she scared of someone? I think she was being threatened. Did she tell you about it?’
She looked down at her desk. ‘Threatened? She was threatened by a lot of things. Fear of failure. Loss of love and respect. And, yes, there were things about her past she was hiding. Marina had secrets. But we all have secrets. We all have nasty little things in our past that we wish we hadn’t done. Marina had her share of them. That’s as much as I’ll say to you.’ She shuffled some papers.
‘So were you surprised when she died? Did you think she was suicidal?’
‘If I’d thought that I would have treated her differently. But suicide is a mysterious act. The problem is that after someone takes their life everyone tries very hard to find ways to understand what happened. They start looking for signs, for hints of what was to come. But we can’t know what the suicidal state of mind is like. Because, above all, we want to live and we cannot understand someone who does not want that any longer.’ She sighed. ‘Look, I would help you if I could. The answer to your question is that I didn’t know she was going to die by suicide. I was very surprised when I heard what had happened. In one way, that is. But there again, she was at times very self-destructive. She abused alcohol. She abused drugs. But she did have moments of intense happiness. She was a very vivid person. I have to say that I miss her.’ She moved away from her desk and across to the window. She was smaller than he had realized, her size emphasized by the wide linen trousers she was wearing. She stretched up towards the catch and slid the window closed. Then she undid the heavy curtain ties on either side of the wooden architrave and pulled the curtains together.
McLoughlin moved towards the other window. The curtains were a heavy grey brocade.
‘These are lovely,’ he said, as he loosed them from their tasselled keepers.
‘Yes, they are. Marina chose them.’
‘Oh?’
‘I met her when she was doing some work for a friend. I had just moved my practice here and I asked her advice about decorating. She did a lovely job on this room.’ She walked back to the desk and picked up her bag, ‘Time to go.’
He followed her down the stairs and into the hall. They went outside into the evening sunshine. She locked the door.
‘No alarm?’ He looked up at the building.
‘No. The guy who owns the house lives and works in the top-floor apartment. He keeps a good eye on the offices. In fact, well, you’ll be surprised to hear me say this after my own response to you, but you should talk to him. About Marina.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. His name is Mark Porter. They were friends. In fact, he—’
‘Yeah,’ he interrupted. ‘He brought her to the party.’
‘Well done. I can see you’re up to speed.’ She smiled and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Look, I don’t really know what to say to you, but to be honest, I think on the balance of probability that Marina either killed herself deliberately or she was so careless of her safety, you know, drinking excessively, taking cocaine, going out in the boat by herself at night, that even if, strictly speaking, it was an accident, it wasn’t. Do you see what I mean?’
She began to walk away. He didn’t want her to go. She reminded him of someone else. Margaret Mitchell had some of the same combination of intelligence and astringent grace. And she had a smile to match. He wanted Gwen to smile at him again. He wanted to bask a bit longer in its sudden warmth. ‘Hey, Dr Simpson, Gwen, hold on a minute.’
She slowed and turned.
‘Would you fancy a drink or something? Maybe a bite to eat. Something to repay you for your time and your kindness.’
She stared at him for a moment. ‘Sorry, Mr McLoughlin. I think I mentioned that I was tired, had had a long day. Looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.’ She raised a hand. Her keys jingled. ‘’Bye for now.’
He watched her drive away. Loneliness had him in its steely grip. He couldn’t face the thought of his empty house. He took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. It was just six o’clock. If he hurried he might get to the club in time to go sailing. It was Johnny Harris’s night. He selected his number and pressed the green button. He heard the familiar welcoming voice: ‘Mic
hael, what can I do for you?’
‘Johnny, got room for me on board?’
‘Sure thing, Michael, sure thing.’
He found his car and unlocked the door. Just what he needed, the wind on his face and the taste of salt on his lips. He started the engine. To hell with women. Nothing but trouble. To hell with the lot of them.
THIRTEEN
‘God, I needed that.’ Johnny Harris lifted his pint of Heineken and drained half in one long swallow. McLoughlin watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, the skin of his neck, red and wrinkled. He had a sudden unwanted image of Harris in an embrace with the recently departed Chicko.
‘What’s up, Michael? Pint not agreeing with you?’ Harris put his glass on the table and pulled a cigar from the top pocket of his faded denim shirt.
‘No, it’s fine. I was just reflecting on that broach out there. We nearly ended up in the drink. A bit hairy, wasn’t it?’ McLoughlin picked up a box of matches from the table, struck one and held it out.
‘Nah, not at all. Not with yours truly at the helm.’ Harris put the tip of his cigar into the flame and sucked hard. Then he sat back, a stream of smoke pouring from his mouth. ‘Isn’t that right, Bill? Not a chance of anything going wrong. You have to take a few chances if you want to win.’
Bill Early, one of Harris’s regular crew, grunted, then drained his glass. He stood up and gesticulated at the bar.
‘Thanks.’ McLoughlin raised his pint. ‘Same again.’
The terrace outside the yacht club was crowded with sailors, faces flushed, voices raised. The sun was still hot. McLoughlin turned his back on it. He was tired. The sailing had been competitive. Johnny was a demon when he got going. All his polite diffidence vanished as soon as he put on his life-jacket.
McLoughlin regarded him now as he sat back and blew smoke-rings. A steady stream of congratulations came his way. Everyone dropping by to shake his hand or offer him a drink. It must have been hard, McLoughlin thought, when he decided to come out. Hard to ignore the sniggers, the whispers, the cruel asides. But, McLoughlin reckoned, he was protected by his family standing. Hard to ignore the Harris money.
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