McLoughlin finished his drink and picked up the fresh one Bill Early had left for him. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could have slept where he was. He should go home, he thought, before he drank too much more. But the thought of the empty house still filled him with dread.
‘Hey, Michael, no snoozing allowed.’ Harris’s voice cut through his gloom. ‘What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this place exciting enough?’
McLoughlin forced one eye open. His friend’s face was flushed. He stubbed out his cigar and rocked back in his chair.
‘Think it’s nearly time to go.’ McLoughlin raised his glass. ‘It’s us retirees, you know. We’ve no stamina.’
‘Yeah.’ Harris sounded miserable. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. It starts with such promise, then somehow or other it fizzles out.’
McLoughlin said nothing.
‘It’s not much to ask, is it?’ Harris went on, bitter now.
‘What?’
‘Happiness, contentment, love.’ Harris glared at the crowded terrace. ‘All these lucky people, they could have it in spades. Countless opportunities. From the moment they reach puberty, it’s there for them. They just have to reach out and pluck it. And what do they do? Look.’ He jabbed his finger towards a group standing together at the top of the steps. ‘I know for a fact that he, the guy with the red hair and the very red face, is shagging his brother’s wife and she, the woman next to him, is a serial adulterer whose cuckolded husband is in John of Gods drying out.’ He drained his glass and reached for another. ‘And, look, you see that lot at the table next to us?’
‘Ssh, Johnny, keep it down.’ McLoughlin squirmed. He’d only been a member for a couple of years and he didn’t have the same kind of casual indifference to convention that Harris exuded. But Harris ignored him.
‘The very good-looking man who’s positively drooling over that young one in the shorts and the halter-neck top, well, he’s married to the rather plain woman. See her, over there on her own, the one with the big nose and the thick ankles? A marriage made in the boardroom rather than the bedroom, if you know what I mean. In fact,’ he lowered his voice, ‘you know who they are?’
McLoughlin shook his head.
‘The post-mortem I did this afternoon. The woman in Rathmines?’
‘What about her?’
‘Well, that’s her sister. Poppy Atkinson.’
‘Oh?’ McLoughlin craned his neck. ‘Was it suicide? Or the other?’
Harris shrugged. ‘Looked like suicide to me. Kind of similar to your one. Your Marina Spencer. Alcohol, cocaine, although she didn’t drown. She died in her own bed. Heart failure.’
‘And the husband? Is there a husband?’
‘Very much so. She’s married to Charlie Webb. One of the estate agent Webbs. Worth a fortune. Beautiful house in Palmerston Park. I counted four cars in the drive. Poverty wasn’t her problem.’
‘So what was?’
‘Who knows? She left a note. Unsigned, something about asking for forgiveness. I spoke briefly to her husband. He says he can’t imagine why she would want forgiveness. As far as he was concerned, they were extremely happy, madly in love, completely faithful, two beautiful kids and everything to live for.’
‘Any signs of anything else? Force, violence, anything odd sexually?’
‘Nothing. I did find traces of semen on the sheets. But that’s hardly surprising. Anyway, Poppy over there is her sister. Although you wouldn’t know it to look at them.’
‘And where was the dead woman’s husband when she was dying?’ McLoughlin’s glass was empty. He was tempted to have another.
‘He was away overnight in London on business.’ Harris sat up. The self-pity was gone. ‘Went straight to his office in town from the plane the next morning. Phoned home to say he was back and got worried when no one answered. Then the housekeeper called him. Said she’d gone into the house, found the two kids watching TV. They said their mother was asleep, that her bedroom door was locked. The housekeeper couldn’t open the door so she phoned Charlie. He phoned the guards and they broke the door down and there she was.’
‘Poor thing.’ McLoughlin finished off the last mouthful of Guinness. ‘Was the husband playing away? Was the London trip a bit more pleasure than business?’
Harris sighed. ‘Who knows? He has the means, motive and opportunity. In other words, the money, the looks and the class.’
‘Well,’ McLoughlin stood up, ‘I’d better go. If I have another I’ll be here all night.’
‘Ah, don’t,’ Harris pleaded. ‘I’ll organize you a lift later on. There’s plenty of guys who live up your way.’
‘No, really, Johnny. I’m trying to keep a lid on the drinking.’ He took his jacket from the back of the chair. Harris looked bereft. ‘Where’s Bill gone? And the rest of the guys? What’s happened to crew loyalty?’
Harris grinned broadly. ‘“Sometimes it’s hard to be a skipper,”’ he sang loudly.
‘Yeah, right.’ McLoughlin saluted him. ‘I’ll see you soon. Thanks for the sail. It was great. And if you want me again, if you want the winning team, I’m all yours. Any time.’
Harris punched his arm lightly. ‘Listen, Michael, sorry for the ould maudlin. You know the way it is.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks again.’
McLoughlin walked back inside and through the bar. It was quiet and almost empty. A group of well-dressed middle-aged women were sitting over their gin and tonic on the heavy leather sofa. They didn’t raise their heads as he passed. He stopped in the hall and put on his jacket. This was such a beautiful building, he thought. Early nineteenth century with all the elegance and grace of its period. Above his head was the great domed skylight. He could imagine being here when everyone else had gone home, moonlight and starlight filtering through on to the dark blue carpet. He pulled open the heavy front door and walked out to the granite front step. He stopped and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. And heard a woman crying. She was leaning against one of the pillars that flanked the club’s fac¸ade, shoulders shaking, her breath coming in great gasps.
‘Hey,’ McLoughlin moved towards her, ‘are you all right? Can I help you?’
She lifted her head and stared at him. Her face was red and tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn’t reply. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and nose.
‘Here.’ McLoughlin pulled out a handkerchief. ‘It’s OK. It’s clean.’ He held it towards her. She took it without speaking, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She handed it back.
‘No, it’s OK. You keep it. Looks like your need is greater than mine.’
She gave him a small smile and, in the light that streamed from the club’s windows, he saw who she was.
‘Do you need anything? Can I get someone to come out to you?’ He jiggled his keys in his hand.
She shook her head.
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ He turned to leave.
‘Um, just a minute. Where are you going?’ Her voice was slightly slurred.
‘I’m heading home. Stepaside direction.’
‘Could you give me a lift? I don’t feel very well. I’ve had too much to drink. I’d get a taxi but I’m not sure I could handle it.’ She swayed a little as she spoke.
‘No, that’s fine. Come on, I’m parked over here. Where are you going?’
She lived in Terenure. She told him the name of the road, then slumped against the passenger door. He introduced himself. She said her name was Poppy Atkinson. He checked to make sure her door was locked, that her seat-belt was fastened, that she had her handbag. He pushed ‘play’ on the tape deck. Billie Holiday’s voice sang out. He drove slowly and carefully, only too aware that he was over the limit. He hummed along with the songs.
‘I like that, it’s lovely.’
He glanced at her. Her eyes were still closed but the features of her fleshy white face were calmer and more composed. ‘“God Bless the Child”,’ he said. ‘Such a great song. Billie Holiday wrote it, you know. She’s one of my f
avourites.’
She shuddered. ‘She was my sister’s favourite too.’ A tear slipped from beneath her closed eyelids.
‘Your sister?’
‘My sister Rosie. She died yesterday. I can’t believe it. We’re twins. I can’t believe she could have done it without telling me.’
‘Done what?’ McLoughlin slowed. A Garda car was coming up fast behind him. Its roof light was flashing.
‘The doctor said she killed herself. She drank a load of vodka and she took a load of cocaine. I just can’t believe it. The kids were in the house. They were in bed asleep, and when they woke up they couldn’t get into the bedroom because the door was locked. They’re only five and three. Just little ones. She’d never have left them on their own like that.’ She was sitting up straight now, her fists clenched in her lap.
‘It’s hard to know what’s going on in someone’s head when they’re suicidal. They’re not thinking straight. They’re not thinking like you or me.’ McLoughlin’s wing mirror showed the guards turning right behind him.
‘I know that. But I still don’t get it. We’d read all those books about Sylvia Plath. You know – the poet? She put her head into a gas oven when her kids were little. She left glasses of milk and plates of bread and butter in their bedroom and she’d arranged for a new child-minder to come that morning. She tried to protect them. At least she did that. But Rosie – Rosie locked herself into her bedroom. God knows what the kids could have got up to, wandering around in that great big house by themselves.’
‘And their father? Where was he?’ There was another Garda car behind him now. He reduced his speed, conscious that he was in a fifty k.p.h. zone.
‘In London, doing some property deal. If you can believe that.’ Her voice was louder, more aggressive.
‘And you don’t?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. I was with him earlier this evening. He’s in bits. The kids are in shock. I don’t know how he’s going to explain it to them. I don’t know how I would do it, what I would say.’ She pushed herself up in the seat and peered through the window. ‘I just don’t get suicide. It’s so cruel. It hurts so many people.’ Her voice broke. She held on tight to McLoughlin’s handkerchief and raised it to her eyes.
‘Yes, you’re right. It leaves so many unanswered questions. It’s real agony for the families. I was with a woman yesterday whose daughter drowned herself in a lake up in Wicklow. It was six weeks or so ago, but for the girl’s mother it’s as if it’s just this minute happened. You can forget about time and healing.’ He pressed the button and his window slid down. He took a lungful of fresh night air.
‘Wicklow, you say?’ Poppy turned to him. Her voice was loud, the consonants slurred. ‘Wicklow. Are you talking about Marina Spencer?’
A cyclist shot off the footpath and wobbled in front of the car. McLoughlin stamped on the brake pedal. They both jerked forward.
‘Sorry, sorry, they’re all out tonight.’ He hit the horn with the heel of his hand. The cyclist looked back over his shoulder and stuck one finger in the air. ‘And fuck you too, mate,’ he muttered.
‘Are you talking about Marina Spencer?’ Poppy repeated the words carefully.
McLoughlin nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s her name. Did you know her?’
‘Yes. Rosie and I went to boarding-school with her.’ Poppy sank down in the seat again. ‘It was years ago, when we were fourteen, fifteen. You knew her too, did you?’
McLoughlin shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t. Not when she was alive. I’m a policeman – or at least I was until I retired a couple of weeks ago. Her mother doesn’t believe she killed herself so I said I’d see what I could find out about how she died.’
‘And?’
‘And not much, I’m afraid. She seemed reasonably happy, reasonably successful. She didn’t have money worries. And she had friends. A healthy social life.’
‘Friends? I doubt that somehow. Marina didn’t do friendship.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘A social life, yes. She’d always have that.’
There was silence. McLoughlin tried to concentrate on his driving.
‘Yeah, she’d have a social life,’ Poppy repeated. ‘Always some poor unfortunate stuck in her greasy web. Even bloody Mark Porter, though what he was doing with her again, God alone knows.’ She fiddled with McLoughlin’s handkerchief, winding it around her fingers.
‘Mark Porter? You know him too, do you?’ McLoughlin was sweating, but the road ahead was clear. No crazed cyclists, no predatory Garda cars in sight.
‘Oh, yeah, I know Mark. Mark and Marina go way back. That’s why it was so odd when she started seeing him again. Rosie told me about it. We couldn’t figure it out.’ She gave a tight snigger. ‘Especially after the way she treated him when we were at school. The bullying and everything that went with it. Did you know about that?’
‘No. Tell me.’ He was checking the street signs, looking for Poppy’s road. He flicked on the indicator and slowed to turn left.
‘Well,’ she took a deep, shuddering breath, ‘you see, Marina didn’t like me. Rosie was the one she liked. We’re not identical. Rosie got the looks. I got the brains. That’s what everyone said. Marina liked pretty people. And Rosie was mad about her. She didn’t want me while Marina was around.’ Poppy began to sob again. ‘I don’t know how it started but they had this kind of gang. There was Marina, Rosie, Dom de Paor, or Power as we called him then. Ben Roxby was part of it. And Gilly Kearon, who got married to Dom years later, poor girl. And, of course, Sophie Fitzgerald. Another dumb blonde. Even dumber and blonder than Rosie.’
McLoughlin slowed to a crawl. The street was dark, the lights partly obscured by the luscious growth of chestnut trees. The houses were set back, long front gardens with hedges and brick walls. He waited for Poppy’s sobs to quiet. ‘What number are you?’ he asked.
‘Fifty-five, it’s just here.’ She wiped her eyes again with McLoughlin’s handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘Thanks, this is really kind of you. I just couldn’t stay there any longer, in the club, you know. I couldn’t bear to be around all those people.’
‘That’s OK.’ He stopped the car and switched off the ignition. He reached out to give her hand a squeeze, but thought better of it. ‘You should be careful, you know. You’re probably in shock. You want to get into bed and keep warm.’ He pulled up the handbrake and sat back in his seat. ‘But tell me about Marina first. What happened with Mark Porter?’
Poppy reached for the release on her seat-belt. ‘They bullied him. He was very small, you see. He had some kind of growth problem. He had to take something for it. The stuff is made from pituitary glands. Human pituitary glands. Taken from the dead. Well, Marina found out about this. And every time she saw Mark she’d hold her nose, pretend to vomit, say things about rotting bodies, worms, decay. Make sounds like ghosts. All that sort of thing. It was kind of funny to begin with. Mark wasn’t popular. Nothing to do with his disability. He was as pompous as hell. His family were old colonials. They’d been in India, Malaya, wherever. Mark was a terrible snob. Always going on about old money and new money. That didn’t go down well in a school where half the pupils came from the new-money brigade.’
McLoughlin knew what she meant. The yacht clubs were sodden with the same kind of stuff.
‘Anyway, it got out of hand. Other things happened too. Marina was precocious. She was very pretty. Lovely figure. She and Rosie were runners. They were on the athletics team. Great tennis-players too. I remember that Marina had the most fabulous long legs. She looked great in shorts.’ Poppy shifted in the seat. ‘God, I remember what mine were like. Fat, white, ugly. Still are, for that matter.’
McLoughlin said nothing. Guiltily he remembered Harris’s comments about her ankles.
‘Anyway, Marina set her sights on Ben Roxby. He was Rosie’s boyfriend, everyone knew that. Rosie was so upset. Marina was supposed to be her friend. And there was talk about other things too.’
She stopped. She felt around with her feet fo
r her bag.
‘What kind of talk?’ McLoughlin’s lower back was aching. He must have pulled something on the boat.
‘Oh, that Marina was giving blow-jobs in the basement.’ Poppy let out a shriek of high-pitched laughter. She slapped her hands on her knees. ‘Blow-jobs in the basement. Have you ever heard the like? Sounds like the title of a soft-porn movie. I don’t think most of us knew what a blow-job was. Not like teenagers these days. They’re all experts.’ She dragged her bag on to her lap. ‘Anyway, whatever was going on, it had a terrible effect on Mark. He got so upset that he tried to hang himself from the banisters on one of the top landings. But the rope broke and he fell. It was amazing he didn’t die.’ She took out a powder compact. ‘The teacher who found him did CPR until the ambulance came.’ She clicked it open and examined her face in the small round mirror. ‘Marina was expelled. Rosie wasn’t. I was so glad when Marina left. She was a rotten bitch. Bad news.’ She pushed her hair out of her eyes.
‘Did you ever see her again?’
‘Not for years and years. I heard she’d gone to the States or somewhere. Her brother, Tom, stayed on in school for another couple of terms, then he left too. That was for financial reasons. They’d no money after James de Paor died. But I did see Marina in town not that long ago. It was just before Christmas. I was in Grafton Street and I saw her coming out of Brown Thomas. I got a real shock.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Speak to her? No, I didn’t speak to her.’ Her voice was very loud in the car. Loud, bitter, angry. ‘She didn’t see me. Nothing new in that. She never saw me. She looked great. She was with a girl, a teenager. I think it must have been her half-sister, the child her mother had with Dominic’s father. I watched them walking down the street. Christmas lights, carol singers, everyone happy and jolly and I thought, You bitch. One of these days it’ll all catch up with you.’ She closed her bag. ‘And you know what? Finally it did.’ She groaned. ‘Christ, I don’t feel great. My hangover’s kicking in already.’ She half turned towards him. ‘Listen, thank you again. You’ve been really kind. I’d better go. I should phone my husband. By now he might just have noticed I’ve left and he’ll be wondering what I’m up to.’
I Saw You Page 10