‘In particular he seemed fine. He said he’d been visiting his friends in Kildare. The people with the stud farm.’
‘And who are they? Do you know?’
Sophie Fitzgerald, McLoughlin thought. The gorgeous blonde.
Gwen shook her head. ‘Not the name, but he’s quite close to them, often goes out there at the weekend.’ She paused. ‘He said if I felt like having a drink he’d be up for a while. But I told him I still had a lot to do on my paper. He asked me what it was about, and when I told him he got agitated, almost angry.’
‘Oh?’ Hickey raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes. He said he thought all that stuff was hugely exaggerated.’
‘Oh?’ Again the raised eyebrows.
‘Anyway, that was it. I went back to my desk. He went upstairs. I didn’t hear anything else until . . .’ her face was stricken ‘. . . until I heard . . .’ She stopped.
‘Nothing else? You didn’t hear anyone come into the building? No doors opening or closing? Phones ringing? Anything?’ Hickey’s voice was gentle but his questions were direct.
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
McLoughlin thought of the disk he had taken from Porter’s flat. It was in the computer in the waiting room. The envelope was pushing through his jacket pocket. He knew he had committed a crime. Removing evidence. He should make an excuse, go back upstairs and return it. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what was on it.
Hickey stood up. ‘If you wouldn’t mind staying for a bit longer? The pathologist is examining the body and we don’t want too many people tramping up and down. We’ll let you go home as soon as we can. I’m sure Michael will keep you company.’ He winked at McLoughlin. ‘Won’t you, Michael?’
‘Sure thing.’ McLoughlin smiled. ‘If that’s OK with you, Gwen. I’ll get that tea for you now. Hot and sweet, just what the doctor ordered. Why don’t you lie back there again? Take it easy.’ He opened the door and Hickey left. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ McLoughlin said.
‘Thanks. You’re being very kind.’
He followed Hickey out of Gwen’s office and waited, listening to the other man’s footsteps on the stone stairs. Then he shut the door firmly and went into the receptionist’s little alcove. He found the kettle, a box of teabags and a couple of mugs. He plugged in the kettle, then sat behind the desk. He touched the computer keyboard, clicked on the DVD icon. And waited.
It was dark. It was night. There was a fire. The flames were shooting up, flickering, showers of sparks. People were standing in a semicircle. Their faces were glowing. Their mouths were open. Then the camera moved. Towards the ground by the fire. Two people were lying there. He could see the man’s back. It was broad and muscular. He was on top of a woman. Her face was very white. McLoughlin recognized her from the photographs. It was Marina. Her arms were up behind her head. The man had his hands on her breasts. His head was bent to her neck. Her eyes were open, staring up. The camera jerked away. Towards Dominic de Paor. He was staring fixedly at the couple. And now the man was standing. It was Mark Porter. The camera zoomed in on his penis. It was soft, flaccid, small, hanging like a fat worm in his pubic hair. The camera moved to his face. He pointed to the woman. She was sitting up now. She looked dazed, only half awake. She turned her head and vomited. No one helped her. No one did anything. The camera moved back to Porter. His hands were over his eyes and his shoulders were shaking as he sobbed and sobbed. The screen went black.
The kettle was whistling. McLoughlin switched it off. He pulled open the drawers in the desk one by one. He found a box of CDs. He slid one into the computer and pressed the icon for burn. He stood up and poured boiling water into the mugs. He stirred the teabags around, then fished them out with a teaspoon and dropped them into the bin. There was a pint carton of milk in the little fridge, and on the shelf above, a half-bottle of brandy. He put them all on the desk and sat down at the computer again. He clicked on the disk icon and both slid out. He put the original back into its box in the envelope and the copy into another envelope in his pocket. Then he went to the door. He looked on to the landing. He could hear the murmur of voices below. He tiptoed out and moved quickly and quietly towards Porter’s flat. He ducked beneath the crime-scene tape and opened the door. The room was as he had left it. He wiped the disk with his handkerchief and carefully slotted it into Porter’s laptop and put the envelope back on the desk. Then he hurried out. He slunk down against the curving wall and slipped back into Gwen Simpson’s waiting room. He picked up the mugs of tea, the carton of milk and the bottle of brandy. His chest was heaving and he could feel sweat on his forehead.
‘Gwen, here, have this now.’ He pushed open the door. She was sitting at her desk, a pen in her hand. She looked at him and for a moment it was as if she didn’t know who he was. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ he asked. ‘You should be lying down.’
‘What?’ She seemed puzzled. ‘Oh, tea, of course. How kind of you. Don’t put the hot mugs on the wood. Here.’ She pushed a pile of papers towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ he repeated. He held up the milk and the bottle and gestured to them. He noticed that his hands were shaking. She pointed at the brandy. He unscrewed the cap and poured a good measure into both mugs, then passed one across the desk. She sipped it slowly. ‘Thanks. That tastes good.’ She sipped again. ‘I’m making a few notes about Mark.’
Mark Porter, naked, vulnerable, exposed, humiliated.
‘Oh?’ He tried to look noncommittal.
‘Yes, I don’t know how much you know about him but he tried to kill himself when he was a teenager.’
McLoughlin nodded. ‘I did hear that.’
‘And the circumstances were very similar. Again he used the banister on the top landing. At his boarding-school.’
His tea was bitter. Not improved by the brandy. He could feel it burning as it slipped down his oesophagus. ‘Yes, I know. The consequence of bullying, the poor guy.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that was the reason. I know that’s what everyone said, but Mark had other demons to fight. He had been damaged long before then.’
‘Oh?’ McLoughlin didn’t feel good. He wanted to get out into the fresh air. ‘His disability must have made his life hard. It’s never easy being different.’
‘It was more than that. And a lot worse, although he tried to play it down. He would never accept any form of weakness.’ She fiddled with her pen. ‘Mark wasn’t just bullied. He was also abused at school.’
‘At the Lodge? By a teacher?’ He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
‘Yes, at the Lodge, but it wasn’t one of the school staff. It was a Scout-master. It seems like a cliché now, but unfortunately it’s true. Poor Mark. I don’t think he was physically able for all the hiking and camping out, but he told me it was what was expected of him so he did it. And some bastard took advantage of his helplessness. Just goes to show that paedophiles are no respecters of class.’ She looked down at her papers. ‘Although as far as Mark was concerned being abused was part and parcel of that kind of school life. He told me once,’ and she mimicked him, ‘“Every chap gets buggered. It’s as common as morning prayers and cold showers after games.”’
‘So he didn’t make a complaint? There was no police involvement?’
‘No, that wasn’t the way. Least said, soonest mended.’
‘I see.’ He looked over her head at the vivid colours of the painting on the wall. And saw Mark Porter’s head lying smashed open in the crimson of his blood.
‘Do you, Michael, do you really see? I’m not sure that you do. I’m not sure that any of us who hasn’t experienced it first hand understands how it damages your sense of self, your self-esteem. Mark was a client of mine for a while. He told me about it, and then, not long afterwards, he stopped coming to see me. He never referred to it again. He was, I’m afraid, a very damaged person. And I was unable to help him.’
‘Like Marina? She was damaged too.’
Befo
re she could reply the door opened and Hickey came in. ‘You can go home now, Dr Simpson. We’ve finished downstairs. However, this is still a crime scene for the time being. The building will be closed tomorrow. You might want to make alternative arrangements.’ He sounded apologetic.
‘For how long?’ She tidied her papers and stood up.
‘We’re not sure at the moment. When the pathologist has issued his report on Mr Porter’s death we’ll have a better idea.’ Hickey moved back into the outer office. ‘We’re closing up now so if you could make a move too, Michael?’
McLoughlin followed Gwen Simpson down the stairs. She was carrying a laptop in a bag over her shoulder and a box of books and papers. Mark Porter was no longer a misshapen heap on the floor. A puddle of congealed blood was all that was left of him. Johnny Harris had propped himself against the wall beside a huge gilt-framed mirror. He looked tired. McLoughlin patted his shoulder. ‘Hey, Johnny, long night?’ he said.
‘Michael. What has you here?’ Harris turned to watch Gwen Simpson as she brushed past.
‘He’s a friend of the lady,’ Hickey hissed.
‘Mm?’ Harris cocked his head to one side.
‘Ssh,’ McLoughlin put a finger to his lips. He hurried outside after Gwen. The square was busy. There were two police cars, and a police motorbike parked up on the footpath. An ambulance stood with its doors open. A couple of paramedics were pushing a body-bag from a trolley inside it. A small crowd of onlookers was hanging around, and among them McLoughlin noticed a couple of journalists he knew.
‘Let me help you. This lot can be a hell of a nuisance.’ He took the box from Gwen. ‘Where’s your car?’
She jerked her head, then walked towards a red Mercedes soft-top parked under a street-light. ‘Thanks.’ She opened the door. ‘I can manage now.’
‘Would you like me to see you home? You’ve had a hard time.’
‘No, I’m fine, really. Thanks for the tea and for, well . . .’ She smiled up at him, then reached into the car to put the laptop and books on the passenger seat.
He stood back. The images kept crowding in.
She straightened up. ‘You don’t look so good either. I hope you’ll be able to sleep after all this. Don’t drink too much tonight. OK?’
He grinned at her wryly, then turned away. Johnny Harris was waiting for him.
‘Pretty woman,’ Harris remarked.
‘Yeah, but not my type. She has the world all figured out. And someone like me isn’t part of her figuring. Now,’ he put an arm around Harris’s shoulders. ‘Tell me what you’ve been figuring. How did Mark Porter die? Was it suicide or what?’
The images wouldn’t leave him. Even when he closed his eyes he could still see them. The group of people around the fire.
‘Marina,’ he whispered, ‘how could you let this happen? Why did you let this happen? And why was de Paor phoning you? Why were you phoning him? Tell me, Marina, please tell me.’
He picked up the school photograph. He thought about the faces around the fire. He tried to match them up. He could definitely recognize Rosie and Dominic de Paor. And he was almost sure he could identify a couple of the other women. One was Gilly Kearon and there was the Honourable Sophie Fitzgerald. From the stud farm in Kildare. And who, he wondered, had been behind the camera? Who was the witness to it all? Who wanted a record of what had happened? Who wanted to be able to say, ‘I saw you. We saw you.’
TWENTY-ONE
The two women walked along the West Pier in the morning sunshine. Sally’s little dog rushed ahead, then stopped to wait, his springy tail wagging, his mouth open as he panted with the effort.
‘He tries hard, doesn’t he?’ Margaret tugged at his ears gently.
‘Yeah, he sure does.’ Sally held up a worn tennis ball. ‘Come on, Toby – look!’ She threw the ball as far as she could and the dog yapped, jumped into the air then took off after it.
‘Would it be fun to be a dog, do you think?’ Margaret held up a hand to shade her eyes as she watched him run.
‘Fun? I’m not sure,’ Sally pushed her hair off her forehead. ‘It’s hot today. It’s not usually out here.’
‘No, it’s usually bloody freezing. My father was what you could call a daily communicant when it came to walking the pier. Winter and summer, wet and dry, freezing or not. I spent my teenage years trying to avoid the summons to join him.’
‘Well, that’s one of the pluses about having a dog. The pier walk has to be done, whether you like it or not, so you stop considering it a choice.’ Sally put two fingers into her mouth and gave a surprisingly loud whistle. The dog stopped and turned back.
Margaret’s expression was admiring. ‘That’s fantastic. I thought only teenage boys could whistle like that.’
Sally smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s one of the things I’m most proud of. My first husband, Robbie, showed me how to do it. When we were teenagers, when he was coming to see me and my parents didn’t approve, he’d whistle as he walked up the road and I’d sneak out through the back garden.’
They walked, in silence then, as far as the lighthouse at the end of the pier. They sat on the granite wall and looked across the bay to Howth. The dog found a patch of shade, lay down and panted, his sides heaving and drops of spittle forming on his shiny black lips.
‘Where’s Vanessa?’ Margaret asked. ‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of days. Has she gone off me?’
‘I doubt it. She likes you very much. Which is good. She’s not usually that impressed with people.’ She shaded her eyes against the sun. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on with her at the moment. She’s getting up early, which she never used to do, and going out, then not coming home until late.’
‘Is it a boy?’
Sally shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. If it was I’d be pleased for her. She doesn’t have much confidence, you know. Her hippie look, the clogs, the headscarf, the beads, it’s a disguise, really.’
‘Kids are good at disguises, aren’t they?’ Margaret followed the progress of a long, elegant yacht as it sailed into view between the two pier walls. ‘Mary was much better at it than I’d thought.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, it was very strange. After she died I discovered all kinds of things about her that I hadn’t known. I discovered she’d had an abortion. I discovered she’d had a number of boyfriends in New Zealand whom I’d never met. And, of course, there was her relationship with . . .’ She stopped and stared at the ground. She swallowed hard, the lump heavy in her throat. ‘. . . the man who killed her.’
‘A relationship? Could you call it that?’ Sally turned to look at her.
‘Yes, it was a relationship. Not one that I would have wanted. Not one that was healthy or worthwhile or any of the good things. But it was a relationship. He knew a version of Mary that I didn’t. And that was one of the things that really hurt.’ She clenched her fists and drummed them on her thighs. ‘He knew her in a way that I didn’t. He told me things about her that I didn’t know.’
‘He told you? You met him?’ Sally’s voice was shocked.
Margaret nodded. She stared out across the sea at the yacht. It was on a run. Its spinnaker was flying, a bright design of reds and blues, the wind pushing it into a great, swelling billow.
‘I met him. I spoke to him.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘I killed him.’
‘How? Under what circumstances? After he was freed?’
‘Before and after, but I don’t want to go into it now. It’s difficult to talk about. But it made me realize how little I knew Mary.’ She pushed herself up to standing.
‘But was he telling you the truth?’ Sally got up too. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t lying? To justify what he did to her.’
‘He was lying about some things, but not about others. I had to accept it. There were just some parts of Mary that I didn’t know. You must have found that about Marina since she died, haven’t you? Haven’t you discovered that she was a different person?’
‘It didn’t matter to me either. That’s not what I’m saying. My love for Mary was as deep and powerful as ever. I was just sorry that I wasn’t able to talk to her any more. That we weren’t able to continue our friendship. I always thought we would be friends as she got older. That we would share our lives. Even if she got married, had her own children, that we would always be close. But . . .’
They began to walk back along the pier. The gravel was dusty underfoot. Again there was silence. It was even hotter. Margaret was tired. Sally threw the ball for the little dog. He scampered backwards and forwards, tail wagging, high-pitched yelps of pleasure coming from his mouth.
‘You know, don’t you,’ Sally said, ‘that we were all very interested in what happened to your daughter? Not just because it was sad and awful, but because Patrick Holland was the defence barrister. We knew him very well. And when he took on the case I phoned him and asked him how he could do it.’
‘And what did he say?’ Margaret turned to her.
‘He said that everyone was entitled to a defence. That was the law. Innocent until proven guilty, no matter what the crime. I said to him – I remember because I was really angry – “You don’t honestly believe that, do you?”’ She threw the ball again. ‘And he said he was surprised I was challenging his argument, given that I, too, had needed an advocate after James’s first wife had had our marriage declared illegal and I had gone to court to get maintenance for Vanessa. And he had been my barrister.’
‘Was he? Did Patrick help you?’ Margaret stopped.
‘Yes, he was very kind. And he did it for nothing. I wanted to pay him, but he wouldn’t take any money. It was a terrible time. I hadn’t realized what the process of going to court would be like. And Helena, James’s first wife, she turned up every day. Watched it all. Watched me. It was horrible.’ Sally turned towards the sea. ‘I’m so lucky to live here, you know. The case went on for ages. It kept on being adjourned, put off, put back, I don’t know what. When I came home I’d change, get the dog, put Vanessa in her buggy and we’d come down here. There’s something very cleansing about sea air. I don’t know what it is, but it gets rid of a lot of shit.’
I Saw You Page 20