I Saw You (4 page)

‘How old was he?’ McLoughlin shifted on his chair. He wasn’t enjoying this.

‘Seventeen. Older than my two. Very adult. Articulate, good-looking, sophisticated. I think, looking back, that I didn’t appreciate how close he and his mother were. How much
influence she had over him. And he was very possessive about the Lake House and the estate. I think he thought I was a gold-digger.’ She smiled and pulled a tissue from her pocket. ‘If
he only knew. I didn’t care about any of it. Looking back, I’m sorry that James and I bothered with the marriage. It caused nothing but trouble. But, well, we can’t change it
now.’

It was very quiet in Sally’s small house. It was tucked into Trafalgar Lane, once a mews behind Trafalgar Terrace, a row of Victorian three-storeys facing Dublin Bay to the north. It was a
pretty house, sunny and bright, although there were signs of neglect. The sun shining on the windows showed how long it had been since they were last cleaned, and a pall of dust dulled the shine of
the furniture. Sally, too, was worn and neglected. She was small and very thin. Her face was grey with tiredness, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Her fair hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
She leaned down and stroked the rough coat of the small dog sleeping at her feet.

‘Sorry, sorry. I can’t stop crying these days. I keep trying to get a grip, but . . .’ She shrugged and made a wan attempt at a smile. ‘I can’t believe this has
happened. I thought, when James died, that nothing that bad could ever happen again. I thought in some ridiculous way that I’d had more than my fair share of death and tragedy. That I’d
be immune to it for ever. And now this.’

She stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece. She picked up a photograph in a silver frame, turned and held it out to McLoughlin. ‘This is my Marina. She was so lovely. Always, from the
moment she was born. She was a wonderful little girl, and a gorgeous grown-up. And what’s so sad is that for the first time I really felt she’d got her life together. Here.’ She
kissed the cold glass covering the photograph, then handed it to McLoughlin.

Sally was right. Marina was lovely. Dark hair pulled back off her face and dark brown eyes to match. A wide smile. High cheekbones. The kind of woman you’d notice.

‘How old was she?’ McLoughlin handed the picture back.

Sally folded her arms over it protectively and sat down again.

‘When that was taken? Or when . . .’

‘When she died.’

‘She was thirty-two. She didn’t look it, though. People always thought she was much younger.’

‘You too. You don’t look old enough to have a child of that age.’

She smiled, and for a moment his words were not just flattery. ‘I was very young when I had her. I was barely eighteen. My husband and I were teenage sweethearts. We got married when I was
six months pregnant. Not that either of us cared. We were madly in love. I’d just done the Leaving Cert and Robbie was in college. But he worked part time and somehow we scraped
by.’

‘And you’ve another child too?’

‘My son, Tom, was born two years later. And then when James and I got married we had Vanessa. She was just a baby when James died.’ The tears were flowing again. ‘I’d
brought two children up without a father. The last thing I wanted was to have to do it again.’ She began to sob.

McLoughlin looked away. What on earth was he doing here? All those years of giving people bad news. He’d had enough. He stared out the window. He could see above the high houses on both
sides that the sky was a perfect pale blue. A gust of wind stirred the leaves on the old sycamores. Force four to five, he reckoned. Perfect sailing weather. He looked around the room and took in
the carriage clock on the bookshelf. It was two thirty. If he could wrap this up soon he’d be in time to meet up with his friend Paul. Get some more info on the next trip to France.

‘I’m not sure I can help you with this, Sally. I’m sure the local guards did everything they could to establish the cause of your daughter’s death. If they thought it was
suicide, well, I know it’s hard to accept, but maybe they were right.’ Fuck Tony Heffernan for dragging him into this. ‘And from what Tony told me there was a note, wasn’t
there?’

Sally looked at him. Her eyes, he noticed, were a mottled green. Like pond water, he thought.

‘It was hardly a note. It was a bit of paper found in her bag. It said something about forgiveness. That’s all.’ She paused and looked down at her hands. ‘Look. I can pay
you, if that’s a consideration.’

He shook his head. ‘Please, it’s not about money. It’s just that I honestly don’t see what I can do for you.’ He could feel his cheeks reddening.

She stood up and walked towards a large, handsome desk. As she moved, the little dog stretched and yawned, then rolled over and went back to sleep. Sally pulled open the top drawer. She turned
towards him, an album in her hands. ‘Please, take this and have a look at it. I collected everything to do with my husband’s death, which was an accident, I know that. Since Marina died
I’ve collected everything that’s been written about her and what happened. I had a lot of letters from people who knew her. Read them. See what her friends thought. Don’t make a
decision now. I’ll respect whatever you decide.’ She held out the album, as if she was presenting him with a precious gift. ‘Marina did not commit suicide. Perhaps she died
accidentally. Perhaps she was drunk and fell into the lake. But I don’t think so. Ever since James drowned Marina has been terrified of water. You know, she was with him in the boat when it
happened. I don’t think she’s ever been in one since. Something happened that night at the house. Something that has not been explained. Please take this. Please.’

The album lay on the passenger seat beside him as he drove down the narrow lane and turned towards the main road. Its shiny black cover seemed to give off its own energy. He reached down and
touched it and his fingers slipped to its side. He flipped the pages open.

He stopped at the junction. Ahead, Dublin Bay was blue and beautiful. He looked right and left, then crossed carefully and drove down the narrow slip-road, over the railway bridge, towards the
Seapoint Martello tower. Then he turned left again on to the small cul-de-sac facing the sea. He had always loved these houses. They had been built for naval officers in the early nineteenth
century. They were unassuming but beautifully proportioned, with the flight of six steps to the front door, double-fronted with bay windows to either side. It was a while since he had been here. In
the months after Margaret had left he had sometimes parked here at night, gazing out at the sea and thinking about her. Now he found a space to park just beyond the house. He picked up the album.
It was heavy. He rested it on the steering-wheel. There was a Pandora feel to all this, he thought. He didn’t want to know what it contained. But, like Pandora’s box, he knew for sure
that it held nothing good. All of Sally Spencer’s tragedy and despair were contained within these pages. And now he would be letting them loose.

He put it back on the passenger seat and got out of the car. He stood in front of the house, then bent down to open the gate. It squeaked and grated noisily on the uneven stone path. He picked
his way over the limestone flags. They were cracked and broken, and dandelion and buttercup had seeded freely. Rubbish had blown in from the road. Plastic bags, crisps packets and chocolate
wrappers had threaded themselves through the shrubs along the walls. He stopped at the bottom of the steps. The wrought-iron railings were rusting and the paint on the door was faded and
peeling.

He walked slowly up the steps. The windows of the front rooms downstairs were shuttered. One, he remembered, was a bedroom. Margaret’s mother had lain there for the last few months of her
life, keeping an eye on the road as she drifted in and out of her drugged sleep. The room on the other side was a formal drawing room, with a marble fireplace and ornate plasterwork. He had caught
a glimpse of it the many times he had visited. But Margaret had never invited him in there. They had always sat in the kitchen downstairs or outside in the garden.

Now McLoughlin bent down and lifted the flap on the letterbox. He let it drop with a loud clang. He lifted it again and this time leaned down to peer through. The hall inside was flooded with
sunlight. Blocks of dark reds, greens and yellows from the stained glass on the landing fell across the dusty floorboards. Junkmail was swept into a pile in one corner. He straightened up, then
cupped his hands around his face and looked in through the narrow window at the side of the door. And realized how foolish he must seem. What was he doing here? It was time to move forward, not
back. He walked slowly down the steps. He closed the gate and got back into his car. He reversed slowly down the road. Bloody awkward place to get out of. Served him right for coming here in the
first place. He glanced down at Sally Spencer’s album. Later. He’d look at it later. And then he’d tell her he could do nothing for her. He was sorry but he was going away and he
didn’t know when he’d be back.

Margaret lay curled on her side, her eyes open. It was quiet inside the house. She could hear the sounds from the world outside through the heavy wooden shutters. Cars passing,
the hoot of a horn, the loud rumble of the DART train gathering speed as it moved out of Seapoint station. From time to time she could hear children’s voices, sometimes an adult shouting. And
there was the call of the seagulls as they floated high above the house. But now there was another sound. It was the squeak of the gate as it was opened and pushed back over the uneven stone path.
She raised her head and listened. Now there was silence. She lay down again and wrapped her arms around her chest. And heard footsteps outside, the clunk as the letterbox flap was lifted and
dropped, once, then a pause, then again. She lay very still, waiting for the shrill ring of the doorbell. But all she heard were the footsteps again, this time retreating back down the steps, along
the path, then the harsh squawk of the gate as it was opened and closed. She sat up. She stood and tiptoed to the window. She pressed her face to the gap in the shutters. The garden was empty. The
street outside was crowded with cars. A group of teenagers were sitting on the sea wall. They were laughing and shouting at each other, their movements exaggerated, stylized. She stepped away from
the shutters and got back on to the bed. She was cold now, and tired. She wrapped the eiderdown around her body and closed her eyes. And she slept.

‘You went to see her yesterday. She was so pleased you took the time. Thanks. You liked her, I’m sure.’ Heffernan raised his pint in salute, then took a deep
swallow. He sank down on the bar stool and tugged at his tie. ‘Jesus, it’s hot today. You’re a lucky swine. Got your retirement in the middle of the hottest summer on record.
It’s murder out at the airport, these days. Who’d want to be a guard in Immigration at a time of record effing population change?’ He groaned. ‘We’d a nasty scene
today. Another bloody Nigerian trying to bring in a couple of girls.’

‘What is it about Nigerians? They’re something else, aren’t they?’ McLoughlin picked up his glass and swirled it around. ‘Prostitution, drugs, what was
it?’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘Probably both. The girls were headed for a meat market somewhere. The poor little things. The guy went crazy when we challenged him. The kids had no passports, no
visas, no nothing. He insisted they were his daughters. And when we told him we were sending them back to Lagos, he head-butted Derek Flynn. You should have seen it. Blood all over everything. His
and Derek’s. We had to cart both of them off to the Mater.’

‘And is Derek OK? I suppose he’ll need an AIDS test, poor bugger.’

‘Your man was clean, so that’s one thing in his favour. We arrested him for assault but he’ll be out on bail before you can spit. He already has refugee status. So we
can’t do anything with him. Unless we can catch him pimping. He’s a nasty piece of work. His wife came to the hospital. Lovely woman, three kids hanging out of her. And you could see
she was shit scared of him.’ Heffernan drained his glass. ‘Same again?’

McLoughlin stared balefully at his drink. Mineral water. Even the thought of it depressed him.

‘Ah, come on, Michael, have a proper drink. You’re making me feel miserable. Just the sight of your gloomy expression is enough to put me right off.’

‘OK, OK, I’ll have a bottle of lager, Heineken, Carlsberg, something like that.’

‘Thank God for small mercies.’ Heffernan made a mock bow. ‘Now at least I can relax. Hey, Joe,’ he craned over the bar, ‘when you’re ready.’

He’d wanted to go home after the pub. But Heffernan insisted. He was meeting Janet for a pizza and he wanted McLoughlin to come too. He could see that they were both
determined he was going to help Sally Spencer. Or was it more like a bit of middle-aged matchmaking, he wondered. Now that Heffernan and Janet were married and happy they wanted everyone else
sorted out. He sat in the restaurant and listened while they laughed and joked and enjoyed each other’s company. He was pleased for Tony. He deserved it. He’d suffered for years under
the yoke of a dreadful marriage to the vindictive cow who was his first wife. He’d seen his kids go through hell. He’d lost touch with them for long periods, but somehow this marriage
had made it better for them all. They’d even been on holidays together. They had the photos to prove it.

‘Look at these, Michael.’ Janet put the prints on the table. ‘We had such a good time.’

‘Where in Spain was it?’ McLoughlin tried to sound enthusiastic.

‘A little village called Jimena, an hour or so from Málaga. Up in the hills. In fact we stayed in a house that belongs to a friend of Sally’s daughter.’ Janet spread out
the photos so he couldn’t avoid them. ‘Marina was there for some of the time. See, here.’ She pushed one of the pictures towards him with the tip of her finger.
‘Here’s Marina with Tony and the kids. Hard to believe that a couple of weeks later she was dead.’

Even without his glasses McLoughlin recognized her. The same wide smile, high cheekbones, dark eyes and glossy hair. ‘Look,’ his voice was embarrassed, ‘look, really, your
friend is very nice and I’m sure she’s in a terrible state, but I can do nothing for her. I’m not a guard any longer. I’m a civilian. Even if I wanted to I don’t have
the access. I don’t have the facilities. Best thing she can do is accept that her daughter took her own life. Or if she can’t why doesn’t she get back on to the Blessington
police? Brian Dooley is a good guy. He’ll listen to her.’ He pushed the picture towards Janet and stood up. ‘I’d better go. I’m trying to stay off the drink and all
that goes with it. I’m off to France in a week or so. Sorry, Janet, it’s not my scene any longer. OK?’