AT 9.02 ON Thursday morning I walked into the public office of Glendara garda station. I had received the summons at half past eight while still mainlining tea, Molloy’s usual abrupt telephone manner giving nothing away. Andy McFadden was sitting at the desk behind the counter, ginger brow furrowed in concentration as he tapped away at an ancient-looking computer with two fingers. I wondered if he was typing up Mc-Daid’s statement from the day before.
He looked up as I closed the door behind me.
“Morning, Andy. Tom about?”
“Aye, he is. They’re waiting for you in the back office.”
“They?”
He lowered his voice. “There’s a detective up from Letterkenny. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No. He didn’t.”
McFadden threw his eyes up to heaven and showed me into the tiny interview room at the back of the station. I hesitated for a second in the doorway before going in because, frankly, at first glance, I couldn’t for the life of me work out how I was going to fit. No small man himself, Molloy was accompanied by a heavy-set, fair-haired fellow who seemed to take up at least half the room. The man was sitting authoritatively behind a large desk which itself seemed to take up the other half, and Molloy was rammed into the corner opposite. He stood as I entered and motioned to an empty chair beside him, so clearly I was expected to join them. I maneuvered my way in as he carried out the introductions.
“This is Detective Sergeant Frank Hanrahan from Letterkenny, Ben. Frank, Benedicta O’Keeffe.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I had heard Molloy use my full name.
“Thank you for coming down, Miss O’Keeffe. I’m sure you are very busy.” Hanrahan struggled to his feet and shook my hand.
“Call me Ben, Detective Sergeant. And it’s no problem. Anything I can do to help.”
“Good to hear, Miss O’Keeffe.” Hanrahan was keeping it formal.
Molloy got straight to the point. “We’re conducting a preliminary investigation into Marguerite Etienne’s death, arising out of the findings of the post-mortem. The autopsy report has confirmed that she died as a result of cardiac arrest or ‘shock’ as a result of sudden immersion in cold water, but the pathologist also found traces of bruising on the back of her head which could have been a result of being hit with something before she entered the water.”
My stomach flipped. “I see.”
“But,” Molloy continued, “the bruising could also have been caused by her head hitting against rocks on the sea bed after she died. The water where it’s likely she went in is very shallow in parts, and we think she was washed up very quickly on the other side. According to the pathologist it’s not easy to distinguish ante-mortem from post-mortem injuries in the case of a drowning.”
“Was she …? I mean, I know she was found in her underwear …”
Hanrahan cast a disapproving look in Molloy’s direction. It was obvious I wasn’t supposed to know about the underwear. Molloy caught the look but didn’t react. Instead, he responded to my question.
“There was no evidence of any kind of sexual assault.”
“That’s something, I suppose. But Jesus, do you really think she was murdered?”
“Let’s be clear,” Molloy stated. “Suicide has not been ruled out. It’s still the most likely cause of death. That hasn’t changed. In fact, elements of the post-mortem do point to it. But at the moment we can’t discount the possibility that there may have been somebody else involved, slim though it is. We’re questioning anyone who knew her or saw her yesterday evening.”
I shook my head. “Who on earth would do something like that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Miss O’Keeffe.” Hanrahan had clearly tired of the way this conversation was going and felt that it was high time some information started to flow in his direction. “Sergeant Molloy tells me that Miss Etienne came to you and asked you to draft a will for her but never got an opportunity to sign it, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“When was that?”
“She came to my office on Tuesday afternoon. She left about twenty past six.”
“And what were her instructions?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”
The detective’s face darkened. “You do realize you’ve just been informed that this could be a murder investigation, Miss O’Keeffe?”
“I realize that, Detective Sergeant, but the rules of solicitor-client privilege are clear on this. I’m afraid the only way I could give you that information is if I am subpoenaed, and then it would be a matter for a court to decide the confidentiality issue.”
I was sure of my ground on this point, having looked up the Law Society guidelines as soon as I got Molloy’s call. I was less sure about my initial judgement call with him on the beach the day before. But I convinced myself that telling Molloy that Marguerite had come to see me about a will might in some way have contributed to the guards’ closer examination of her death.
But in the cramped quarters of Glendara garda station, it soon became clear that my position was not a popular one. Hanrahan’s face began to turn red. It was an odd contrast to the yellow hair.
“I was under the impression that you were willing to assist, Miss O’Keeffe.” There was a note of warning in his voice.
“I am. I’m very anxious to help. I want you to find out what happened to her very much. I would be more than happy for you to subpoena me and then I can give you all of the information you want. But if you don’t, my hands are tied. Believe me, I wish they weren’t.”
A purple vein had now become visible on Hanrahan’s neck. I was sure that wasn’t a good sign. He closed the file with a thump.
“Typical lawyer,” he said testily. “Always some old shuffle going on.”
I struggled to hold my own temper in check. “That’s not fair, Detective Sergeant. The rules exist for a reason.”
“Well, if that’s your position, Miss O’Keeffe, I’m sure you will understand if we check out the legalities from our end.”
“Of course.”
I looked at Molloy. He didn’t look too enamored with me either. I got the feeling that he might have indicated to the detective that I would be more forthcoming than I was.
“It’s really very important that we have all the information available, Ben,” he said.
“I know that, but there really is nothing that I can do about this.”
It was clear I held no further interest for the two guards. I imagined I could hear the words interview terminated 9.13 a.m. as I was turfed unceremoniously out of the office.
But as I walked away from the garda station, a feeling of misgiving crept over me. I had put Molloy in an awkward position. That made me uneasy enough. But what if, and my heart sank at the thought, what if the lack of information meant that they dropped the investigation? That was the last thing I wanted.
I turned on my heels and walked back down the street just in time to see Molloy getting into a squad car outside the station. He rolled down the window as I approached. His expression was hardly encouraging.
“I’m sorry, Tom, but that guy just rubbed me up the wrong way,” I said.
“I noticed.”
“That’s not why I didn’t co-operate. I really can’t give you the information you’re looking for unless you go down the right channels.”
“So you said.”
“It wouldn’t take long, you know. A subpoena.”
Molloy nodded towards the door of the garda station. “You know they’re not going to do that.”
“Why ever not?”
“Resources, Ben. These things are prioritised – you know that. At the moment we have no reason to think it wasn’t a suicide.”
“But I think she may have been frightened when she was at my office.”
He frowned. “I don’t remember you saying that yesterday.”
“I hadn’t quite figured it out yesterday. It needs to be investigated. Someone must know something,” I insisted.
“It is being investigated,” he said and, making no attempt to conceal his irritation, rolled up the window.
I climbed the steep hill from the garda station to the office with an anxious gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I must have been one of the last people to see Marguerite alive. Why had she wanted to make her will so urgently, I wondered. According to her instructions, she had very little to leave. But in my experience, it’s not always about property. People often decide to have their wills drafted when they become aware of their own mortality: mostly when they have children, but sometimes for other reasons. Was that what had happened to Marguerite? Could she foresee her own death?
And then there was the question that had kept me awake half the night: what if there was something I could have done? Maybe Marguerite hadn’t wanted to talk to me about a will at all; maybe it was just an excuse. Maybe she had simply needed someone to talk to; someone she could trust. What if she had been trying to tell me something, and I just hadn’t listened? Or worse, what if she had needed a refuge, and I had refused to give it to her? All because I wanted to go home for a glass of wine.
My eyes felt gritty as I squinted against the cold morning sun. I hadn’t slept well the night before, after the garda appeal on the evening news, and I was even more rattled now. Molloy drove past me without a wave.
The smell of aftershave hit me the second I walked into the office. Two men I didn’t recognize were sitting in the waiting room.
“Who are they?” I whispered to Leah. “I didn’t think I had any appointments this morning.”
“No. You don’t. That’s Simon Howard.”
I looked at her. The name didn’t register.
She lowered her voice. “He says he’s Marguerite Etienne’s executor.”
Realization dawned. The sculptor.
“He was waiting when I opened the office. Wanted to know if you would see him without an appointment. He’s the older man. I don’t know who the younger one is.”
I walked into the waiting room. The older man, as Leah had described him, stood up, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. Though we hadn’t met, I had seen him around the town. He had the sort of face you didn’t forget: firm jaw, dark skin, blue eyes, longish brown hair with graying temples. He was also the aftershave culprit.
I offered my hand. “Mr. Howard.”
He took it. “Simon, please.”
The younger man glanced up briefly, but stayed seated. He was pale and much slighter in build.
“I’m so sorry about Marguerite,” I said.
“Yes, bloody awful thing to happen. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry I’m here so early. I’m just on my way back from Derry.”
His accent was educated, Scottish, but he would not have sounded out of place in a Welsh choir. His voice was deep and rich.
“No, that’s absolutely fine.”
“We’ve just come from the airport. I was picking up my son – David.”
The son looked up as if he was surprised to be included. He was older than I had first thought. Maybe it was the way his father had introduced him, but I felt as if I’d been about to address a teenager; looking at his face, I guessed he was actually in his early twenties. Both men had the same blue eyes, but there the resemblance ended. As so often happens in the DNA lottery, when it came to inheriting his father’s good looks, the son had not held the golden ticket.
But the real contrast between them was in the way they dressed. Simon was wearing bright purple cords with a gray linen shirt, while his son wore a navy blazer, white shirt, and tie. It didn’t take a genius to work out which one was the artist. Both seemed oddly contrived.
Nor, it seemed, had the son inherited his father’s geniality. I offered my hand, but he looked away, concentrating hard on the painting on the wall opposite. I withdrew, slightly embarrassed.
“Do you have a few minutes?” Simon asked.
“Of course. Come on up.”
I led the way upstairs while David remained in the waiting room, still staring intently at the wall. I was happy to leave him there.
Opening the door to my office, I remembered that the attendance sheets from my meeting with Marguerite were still on my desk. I had left them there earlier while I was checking the solicitors’ rules of conduct. I moved quickly to cover them with another file before offering Simon a seat.
He crossed his long legs and stretched his right arm across the back of the second chair. The room seemed suddenly very small but, unlike the garda station, this was not attributable to my visitor’s dimensions. I suspected Simon Howard was a man with a big personality. And he knew it.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being crass in calling in so soon, but since I was passing by your door, it occurred to me that maybe I should. I’m not at all sure how these things work. Marguerite told me she was making a will with you and that she had appointed me as her executor.”
“Well … yes,” I replied carefully. “She did give me instructions, but I’m afraid she never actually signed a will.”
“Oh. I see.” He seemed surprised. “I was rather under the impression that it was all done and dusted. So what does that mean?”
“Well, it means there isn’t really anything for you to do. If she hasn’t made another will somewhere else, her estate here will go to her next-of-kin.”
“Right then.” Simon uncrossed his legs and got up to leave. “I suppose that’s that.” He bowed. “Goodbye then, and thank you for your time.” He reached for the door.
Before he had an opportunity to open it, I took a chance. “Unless …”
He turned.
“You don’t happen to know anything about her family, do you?”
He leaned easily against the doorframe. “No, nothing.”
“But you did know her pretty well?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. She just lived close by. To tell you the truth, I was rather surprised when she said she wanted to appoint me her executor.”
“Really? That’s strange. She said you were her friend.”
Simon smiled. “I don’t think she had very many.”
“Well, she obviously trusted you,” I told him.
He looked mildly taken aback, as if considering the notion for the first time. “Yes, I suppose she must have. That policeman Molloy interviewed me about her death, but I haven’t the faintest idea why. I thought she committed suicide?”
“They haven’t actually confirmed that.”
“Oh, right.” He absorbed that, then: “Anyway, there was bloody little I could tell them.”
“When did you last see her?”
He paused for a second before answering. “Tuesday evening – the night she died. Come to think of it, I must have been one of the last people to see her alive. She called in to tell me about the will. Said she had just been to visit you.”
“What time was that?”
“No idea. I was working – bit distracted, I’m afraid, wanted to get back to it. Pulled an all-nighter as it turned out.” He looked apologetic. “I wasn’t really concentrating on what she was saying, to be honest, which is probably why I got the wrong end of the stick about the will.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I said. “You’ve had a bit of a wasted trip.”
“Not at all. I got to meet you.” His eyes narrowed flirtatiously, and I felt myself flush. He explained. “It was David who suggested it might be an idea to call in, as a matter of fact. I knew I’d have to at some stage.”
“God, no. At least not really. I mind his dog. Great Dane, huge donkey of a thing. David travels for work, so he can’t take her with him. The sooner he gets himself sorted, the better; he’s here most weekends at the moment.” He crossed his arms. “So, will you still be administering Marguerite’s estate then, with or without my services?”
“I honestly don’t know. I suppose that depends on whether or not I’m asked.”
“I see.” He looked down as if trying to absorb my answer, then told me, “Actually I don’t see, but I suppose I don’t need to, do I? I’ll have nothing further to do.”
“No.”
“Fine by me. Duty done.”
He had half-turned towards the door when something caught his eye on the wall. It was a wooden carving of a head I’d bought a long time ago in Dublin.
“I see you like your art.”
“Yes. I did a little in school. But then I had to choose between exams for law and completing a portfolio for art school. Never been sure I made the right choice,” I said with a smile. “It was a long time ago now though.”
“Oh, not that long, surely. Were you any good?”
“Not bad.”
“You could always take it up again. It’s never too late.”
I shrugged.
“Anyway, I’ll leave my number with your secretary just in case you need me. For anything.”
He smiled at me again. Rather wolfishly this time, I thought. Although unnervingly, I didn’t entirely dislike it.