I Saw You (17 page)

His mother didn’t speak as he laid the bouquet on her chest of drawers. She smiled and her face creased into a mass of wrinkles.

‘Do you remember, Ma, the way you used to force me out into the garden at night to hunt slugs and snails? You used to chuck them into a bucket and pour salt over them. Do you remember the
sound? The hiss? But you didn’t care, did you, Ma? You’d do anything to protect your bloody delphiniums.’ He sat down beside her and took her hand. The joints and knuckles were
swollen and ugly, but the skin was still soft and smooth. He lifted her hand and held it against his cheek, then kissed it.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered. ‘Get a vase quick. They’ll die without the water.’

They sat in companionable silence. She lay back against the pillows and stared at the flowers. He flicked through the newspaper and turned to the Sudoku. He worked his way through the easy one.
It fell into place. Some days it was like that. The pattern revealed itself without any difficulty. Other times he was beating his head against a brick wall. He put in the final number and sighed
with pleasure.

‘Today your son is a very clever boy,’ he said.

‘Hmm,’ she scowled, ‘makes a change. Don’t remember sums being your strong point in school. Although,’ she reached out and tapped the paper, ‘not exactly
applied maths, that stuff, is it?’

Funny the way she could always get to him. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself of her age and infirmity. Time passed slowly. Cups of tea and chocolate biscuits were brought by one of the
Filipina nurses. She was a dainty little thing with hair like polished jet. She admired the flowers and giggled when he complimented her on the careful way she handled them as she put them into a
tall glass vase.

‘She’s nice,’ he said, as she closed the door quietly. His mother sighed, opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times. She reminded him of one of those ancient tortoises that
live on the Galapagos islands.

‘Nice, they’re all nice. But dull, very dull.’ She sipped her tea, holding the cup carefully with both hands. ‘Tell me something interesting, Michael. I’m so bored.
You must be bored now you’ve retired. Who’d have thought I’d live to have a son of your age? What are you doing with yourself, these days?’

‘Well,’ he began, ‘I got a phone call from an old friend.’

She listened as he told her Marina’s story, a smile brightening her face. Then she sighed with satisfaction and leaned back. ‘A bully, you say. How interesting. And she was pretty
too. That’s an unusual combination. You’d wonder why she did it. Usually pretty girls have to do nothing except exist.’ Her voice had taken on an edge of bitterness. She shifted
awkwardly in the bed and he reached over to take her cup from her hands.

‘Is that right, Ma? You’re speaking from first-hand experience? Miss Loreto Convent
circa
1935?’ He shouldn’t have said it but her taunt about the maths had left a
little scar.

‘Shut up, Michael, for God’s sake.’ For a moment he expected a slap. ‘For your information I was very pretty. I could have had any of the local boys. But the only one I
wanted was your father and there was a little bitch after him too. And, now I come to think of it, she had something of your Marina about her. A devious creature. Small, like a doll. Big smile, big
eyes and a nasty, cruel streak. A boy who lived near us had one of those terrible birthmarks all over his face. A big purply thing. Ugly, very ugly. We used to avoid him. Cross the road if he came
near. But she – Annie was her name – she pretended to like him. She had him eating out of her hand. Following her around like a stray dog. Then one day she turned on him. In front of us
all. I remember what it was like. It was terrible to see. Taught me a lesson about cruelty, that’s for sure.’ There was silence in the room. He could hear the clatter of teacups and a
trolley with a squeaky wheel moving away from them down the corridor.

‘And what did Da think?’

‘He never looked at her again. He waited for me after school one day and walked me home.’ she smiled. ‘Innocent times. A week of walking me home and we were practically
engaged.’ She pointed to the chest of drawers. ‘Open that for me, will you? Get out the photos. I still miss him so much. I want to have a look at him.’

He sat close beside her and turned the stiff pages. She lingered over each small black-and-white photograph. Each was a trigger for her memories. Places, occasions, people. He sat back and
listened. He had heard the stories many times before. But he was conscious, as he listened to the breath struggling from her chest, that he might not hear them too often again. After a while she
fell silent. Her head lolled to one side, her eyes closed. He took the album from between her hands. He kissed her cheek. ‘’Bye, Ma,’ he whispered. ‘Love you.’

His phone rang as he hurried down the steps from the nursing-home.

‘Johnny, what do you have for me?’

Roxby had died from internal bleeding. He had also fractured his skull, broken both legs and smashed his pelvis. ‘He was most likely dead from the moment he hit the ground.’
Johnny’s tone was matter-of-fact. ‘I have the file here. Time of death was given as between eight p.m. on the twelfth of May 2004 and one a.m. on the thirteenth of May 2004. He
wasn’t found until the next morning. That’s why time of death is a bit vague. But the ambulance was called at ten oh-eight on the thirteenth of May. Arrived at ten forty.’

‘Did you do the PM?’ McLoughlin stood at the bottom of the steps. He moved aside to allow one of the nurses to pass. She smiled and he smiled back.

‘Yeah, I did. I remember it, actually. I vaguely knew the family. Went to the same school as one of his uncles.’

McLoughlin fumbled in his pocket for his keys. ‘Was it an accident?’

‘Well, the verdict was accidental death. He certainly died from the fall, but there was a bit of talk about the circumstances.’

‘Yeah.’ He unlocked the car and sat in the driver’s seat. It was hot and stuffy inside. He propped the door open with his foot.

‘Yeah. Gossip, really. But the facts were that there was a violent thunderstorm that day. Roxby had been in Dublin. Came home to discover a leak in the roof. He had, apparently, some kind
of a row with his wife and she insisted he fix it. She then, so the guards on the scene said, took the kids and went off to her mother’s house, which was about five miles away. She spent the
night there and it was when she came back in the morning that she found Roxby dead on the front drive.’

McLoughlin’s shirt was sticking to his back. ‘So they had words. He went up on to the roof. It had been raining so it was slippery. And he fell. What were the words about?’

‘Well,’ Harris’s voice took on a confiding tone, ‘I did hear unofficially, if you know what I mean.’

‘You mean the gay network?’ McLoughlin smiled at his reflection in the windscreen.

‘Unofficially is the word I’m using. It sounds more official, if you get me.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, I did hear that the wife, the very lovely Annabel, suspected he was
having an affair with someone in Dublin and that was why she was so angry.’

‘But it wasn’t suicide? Any suggestion that he took his own life?’

‘No evidence of that. But it was reckless behaviour. The Roxbys’ house isn’t any old country house. It’s a bloody Gothic castle, built by a very rich ancestor in the
mid-nineteenth century. It has turrets and mansard roofs and all manner of gables. Why he went up there on his own, as it was beginning to get dark, is a bit of a mystery.’

McLoughlin drove along the M50. The traffic was light today. He pulled into the outer lane and the speedometer hit 120 k.p.h. He was tempted. He’d never pushed the car as
fast as it could go. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the needle: 125, 130, 135. The road curved imperceptibly. His hands were slipping on the steering-wheel. He could feel
the tarmacadam surface. It vibrated through his feet, his legs, up into his groin. Just one last push. The needle crept towards 140 k.p.h., then he eased back, slowly, slowly, slowly, until he was
below 120 again. And just in time. The turn-off that would bring him up into the lower reaches of the Dublin mountains was coming up. He indicated, moved into the inside lane and slowed again. He
pressed the button on the control panel and the window slid down. He gulped fresh air. Cold sweat dripped down his back. He peeled himself off the seat uncomfortably. He was getting too old to play
the boy-racer.

Ahead was a signpost. The road had narrowed. There were high banks on either side and pine trees pressing close. It was cool and much darker. He took a sharp turn to the right and saw ahead a
white-painted gate and a discreet sign among the trees. He clanked across a cattle grid, slowed and stopped. He got out of the car. The drive wound ahead of him. On either side the trees gave way
to lush pastures, bounded by white-painted fences. A group of horses were grazing together in one corner and in the other cows and their calves lay in the sunshine. McLoughlin stood still and
listened. The silence was broken only by the cooing of wood-pigeons and the faint breeze through the trees. He got back into the car and drove slowly forward towards the large white house that was
just visible up ahead.

The school was a large square house, probably early nineteenth century. From the front it looked untouched, but as he walked around towards the back, he could see that a huge
unsightly extension had been tacked on. A typical example of 1980s architecture, he thought. PVC windows, ugly pebbledash and a nasty flat roof. But beyond again was a vista of formal gardens with
a fountain, tennis courts and playing-fields. And at the edge of the beech woodland that bounded the view on one side he could see a small cottage-style house with its own front garden. An old Land
Rover was pulled into the drive.

He moved away from the car and towards the front door. He lifted the brass knocker. He waited. There was no response. McLoughlin looked around. The garden was well tended, weeded, pretty. A
brick path led behind the house, towards a high beech hedge with a wooden gate. He lifted the latch and walked through. A man was squatting between two rows of courgettes. He stood up as McLoughlin
approached. He was wearing a pair of baggy shorts and an old vest. Thick, tufts of grey hair sprouted from the top of his chest. It matched in colour and texture the hair on his head. His body was
lean and lanky. Thick twisted veins coiled around his arms, and his thighs and calves were well muscled. His skin had the sheen of autumn conkers. And his eyes, under bushy white brows, were a
bright, light blue. Anthony Watson PhD (Oxon), McLoughlin guessed. ‘I’m looking for Anthony Watson,’ he called. ‘Would that be you?’

The man looked him up and down. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ He began to walk towards McLoughlin, stepping carefully through the vegetables. ‘And you are?’ His voice was
melodic. His accent was very English.

McLoughlin began to explain. Dr Watson listened, a polite expression on his thin, lined face. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You want to know about Ben Roxby, what kind of chap he was. Is
that it?’

‘Among other things. Look . . .’ McLoughlin felt awkward. It was very hot behind the high hedge. He took off his jacket, conscious of the sweat patches under his arms. ‘Sorry
to barge in like this. I was passing so I thought I’d see if you were here.’

‘Passing?’ Dr Watson’s eyes thickened to the view of rolling countryside and wooded hills. ‘I see. And you say you’re a policeman? Do you have any
identification?’

McLoughlin fished in his wallet for his warrant card. It looked official enough. As long as Dr Watson didn’t notice the expiry date. He handed it over. The other man held it at arm’s
length. His eyebrows met in a furry grey line as he tried to focus. Then he smiled and handed it back. ‘That’s fine. Just had to check. We’ve been plagued with journalists since
one of our former pupils died a few weeks ago. Bloody parasites.’

‘Yes,’ McLoughlin agreed. ‘That would be Marina Spencer, wouldn’t it?’

‘Marina Spencer,’ Dr Watson repeated thoughtfully. ‘That’s right.’ He seemed distracted. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he said. ‘Hang on a tick.’ He took
a step towards the house. ‘Isobel!’ he shouted. ‘Isobel! Drinks needed – out here if you wouldn’t mind. We’ve got a visitor.’

They sat on low wooden seats in the shade of an apple tree. Dr Watson had offered, in rapid succession, lemonade, Pimm’s No. 1 or gin and tonic. Mindful of his drive back along the
motorway, McLoughlin settled for lemonade. Isobel Watson carried the heavy tray out to the garden. She was as tall and thin as her husband, greying hair cut short with no concession made to style.
Dr Watson introduced her and dismissed her with a kiss on the cheek and a wave.

‘Now, Inspector McLoughlin, what can I do for you? You’re lucky you caught us. We’ve going away tomorrow until the middle of August. Tuscany, don’t you know. Friends with
a villa. Wonderful.’ He leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. He sipped his tall glass of Pimm’s with relish.

McLoughlin tried to sound confident as he explained that he’d been asked by the commissioner to re-examine a number of what had been considered accidents. There had been much media
speculation recently over a couple of deaths that had appeared to be accidental but had subsequently turned out to be suspicious.

‘The commissioner, well, he’s new to the job and he’s very conscious of PR, if you know what I mean.’

Dr Watson raised his eyes to heaven. ‘PR,’ he tut-tutted. ‘What is the world coming to? Same sort of thing goes on in the army now I notice. My grandfather and two of his
brothers were all in the regular army – the British army, I mean, of course. They wouldn’t have stood for any of this PR nonsense, but the chappies in charge these days . . . Well, what
can I say?’ He smiled.

The smile of the conqueror, McLoughlin thought. ‘So, looking back over the last year I noticed that Benjamin Roxby had died from a fall. And there was . . . well . . . speculation at the
time as to whether it was accidental or—’

‘Or what, Inspector McLoughlin?’ Dr Watson’s face had coloured. ‘Ridiculous gossip! Nothing but ridiculous gossip. Ben Roxby was honourable and upright. Came from a very
good family. Did wonderful things for us at the school. Gave us a grant to develop our website. Not that I can see much point in it but, then, old fogeys like me can’t get to grips with that
sort of thing. But everyone else says it’s marvellous and it was all because of Roxby’s generosity. But the gossip, honestly . . .’ Dr Watson crossed his long bony legs and drank
some Pimm’s.