I LISTENED TO the stairs creak under Simon Howard’s departing tread, feeling oddly disconcerted. I had just met a man whom Marguerite considered a friend, and not just any friend, but someone she trusted enough to appoint as her executor. Yet he claimed to barely know her. He seemed surprisingly unaffected by her death, sympathetic but unconcerned, as though it had nothing to do with him.
Something else had occurred to me during my conversation with Simon Howard. I had been so haunted by that awful image of the dead woman curled up by the rock that I hadn’t considered whether or not I had some kind of professional duty here. I tried to work it out. I no longer had a client; my client had been Marguerite. And because there was no will, I couldn’t proceed to administer Marguerite’s estate without instructions from her next-of-kin. In Marguerite’s case, that would be her daughter, but did her daughter even know she was dead? Did the guards even know of the daughter’s existence? Simon Howard was supposed to be her friend, and he appeared to know nothing about her family. What if I was in possession of information that no one else had?
I took my attendance notes from beneath the file where I had hidden them. Stapled to the first sheet was the slip of paper Marguerite had handed to me with her daughter’s name and address on it. I had given it only the merest of glances at the time, but I read it now.
I was surprised. Sogn og Fjordane, Norway. I had expected an address in France. I turned the slip over in my hand, but there was no phone number or email. Should I write to her, I wondered. But to say what? A solicitor’s usual reason for contacting the next-of-kin is to inform them of the existence of a will. It’s rarely up to the solicitor to inform them of the actual death.
Reluctantly, I decided I would wait for a day or two and see what happened. Stay out of it. The guards had the whole thing in hand; Molloy had made that pretty clear.
Leah buzzed. “The Matron from Letterkenny Hospital wants to speak to you.”
I pressed the incoming call button.
“Miss O’Keeffe? We have one of your clients here in the hospital. He has asked me to call you to come down and see him. He’s not well at all, I’m afraid. We don’t really expect him to last the week, but he’s anxious to make a will.”
The Matron explained that the old man’s memory wasn’t so good, but that some days were better than others. I agreed to visit the hospital the next morning.
When I finished the call, I rooted out copies of the man’s deeds. He was a gentle sort, a bachelor farmer with no children, but many nieces and nephews and much land – a recipe for long sets of convoluted court proceedings if I didn’t get everything right at this stage, especially if there were any doubts about his capacity. Deathbed wills are one of the hardest parts of the job; taking instructions and handwriting a will by a hospital bed that you know your client is unlikely to leave under his own steam is incredibly sad. But the safest way to ensure that this man’s will could not be challenged was to have a psychiatrist see him and complete an affidavit of mental capacity. The only one in the area was Brendan Quinn. I decided to call him in the morning after I had been to Letterkenny Hospital.
Making arrangements to go there re-awoke that nagging voice in my head, the one that kept asking me why I hadn’t just drafted Marguerite’s will on the spot. It would have been no trouble for me; I did it all the time. And Leah would have come back in, if I’d called her. The truth was that I had simply seen no urgency about Marguerite’s will; hers was not a deathbed will. But now that I suspected that the will wasn’t the real issue for her, I needed to find out what she had been trying to tell me. I had to find out more about her.
I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. It was sitting back and doing nothing that had me feeling like this in the first place. What was she afraid of? Had someone been threatening her?
McLaughlin & Son Auctioneers and Estate Agents has one of the most prominent locations in Glendara. Painted a bright cherry red and sitting a good two meters taller than the other buildings on the upper side of the square, it gives the impression of a benevolent uncle leaning over its smaller charges – a fitting premise for the town radar. There isn’t a soul in the town or surrounding hinterland that Liam McLaughlin doesn’t know.
The ground floor’s wide shop windows display properties for sale and lease on the peninsula. Never able to resist, I paused to have a look before I went in. Farms, old cottages, newly built holiday homes, even an island was advertised today. I peered at the photograph and the map; it was a small island with its own beach in the middle of Lough Swilly, just off the western coast of the peninsula. I allowed my mind to drift for a second while I imagined owning my own island. Would the isolation be good or bad for one’s sanity? I wasn’t sure.
I was just about to push open the door, when I collided with someone coming out. Someone large and sweet-smelling. With a deep Scottish accent.
Simon Howard smiled down at me. “Oh bloody hell, I’m sorry. Twice in one morning. Who’s following whom, I wonder?”
I smiled back.
“Getting all my business done at once,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Makes sense.”
He held the door open for me in an exaggerated ZZ Top pose. “Nice to see you again.”
“Hi,” Liam greeted me as I walked in, then added in a fake American accent, “Wanna buy an island?”
The estate agent was holding a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and warming his backside against the radiator while his receptionist busied herself replacing brochures in the plastic pockets that were dotted around the walls.
“I just saw it,” I said. “Can’t say I’m not tempted.”
“And you met our Scottish sculptor, I see?”
“I did.”
“Like him?”
“You selling him too?”
“He’s available. And exciting quite a bit of local interest.” Liam gave an exaggerated wink.
“And what makes you think I’d be in the market?”
He grinned. “Well, aren’t you? Seems to me you’ve been single a long time.”
I changed the subject. “Do I smell coffee?”
“No coffee in your place, I suppose?” He tut-tutted. “All right, come on in.”
I followed him into the back office where he poured me a cup from the coffee pot in the corner, refilled his own, and sat at his desk.
“So what’s up? Did Dolan and Gallagher contact you?” He waved to indicate the other seat.
I nodded.
“Any movement?” he asked.
“No contracts as yet. I’ve written for them. I’ll let you know when they come in. Big deal,” I added.
“Big players. Give me a shout if you want me to hurry things on a bit. Might be needed in this case, if you know what I mean.”
“Will do. Thanks for the nod, by the way.”
“No bother.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “Any other craic?”
I took a swig of my coffee. “Did you know that lady who was found on the Isle?”
“The French lady?”
“Yes.”
“Not really. Just knew her to see her. Did you?”
“A bit.”
Liam shook his head. “Terribly sad. Too many suicides around here these last few years. The recession hasn’t helped. Wasn’t it she who was renting Gallagher’s house up towards Knockglass?”
“Gallagher?” There was no shortage of Gallaghers in Inishowen either.
“Jim Gallagher. One of your big players. The Malin Head deal.”
“Seriously? He owned her house?”
Liam nodded. “He owns a fair bit of property round here.”
“Did you do the lease?”
“No. I don’t think he used an auctioneer.” Liam’s gaze switched to the wall. “Funny, you’d think they’d have had a bit of trouble renting that place what with its history …”
“You mean Seamus Tighe’s accident?” I said.
“Aye. But then I suppose that French lady wouldn’t have known about the accident, being not from around here.”
“No.”
“And they did do the place up and block off all the farm buildings before they rented it. Pretty house, it is too. Although you can’t see the water from there; it’s just a bit too far up.” Liam disappeared into auctioneer-speak. “Nice as a holiday house maybe. Lonely sort of a place if you’re on your own though, especially in winter.”
“I suppose.”
“Your Scottish sculptor fella is up there, too. His would be a much bigger place now. All those outbuildings out the back.” He paused before shouting through the open door: “You knew that French lady, didn’t you, Mary?”
His receptionist appeared in the doorway, asking, “Who?”
“That poor French lady they found on the Isle of Doagh the other morning. Marguerite something, wasn’t it?” Liam glanced at me for confirmation.
“Etienne.” I looked at Mary. “She taught yoga and worked part-time in the book shop.”
“I did know her, as a matter of fact.” Mary perched on the seat beside me, her arms full of brochures. “A wee bit just. I did one of her yoga classes the winter before last.” She shot her boss an accusatory look. “You need something like that in this job.”
Liam shrugged as if he had no idea what she meant.
Mary switched her gaze back to me. “She’d just moved here and didn’t seem to know many people so I invited her over. But she didn’t want to – she was a bit odd actually, unfriendly, very different to the way she was in class. Sort of uptight. I didn’t ask her again, I’m afraid. I feel a bit guilty now after what’s happened. Maybe she was just shy.”
“Do they know what happened exactly? Why she did it?” Liam asked.
“Well, they’re not a hundred percent sure it’s suicide yet. The guards are still looking into it.”
He looked surprised. “I heard that on the news but I assumed it was just a formality.” He put his mug down on the desk. “Although it could simply have been an accident, you know. The tides out there are lethal. If she went swimming, she could get caught out very easily, if she didn’t know what she was doing.”
“Maybe.”
He shook his head again. “Strange place to choose to live for a woman on her own. It must have been lonely. Had she any family?”
“None here, I don’t believe,” I said.
“You’d think she’d have joined something, wouldn’t you? I mean, I know she taught those yoga classes …” Liam leaned forward. “Take your Scottish sculptor fella, for instance.”
“He’s not my Scottish sculptor.”
“He’s only been here six months and already he’s involved in all sorts of things: helping with the masks for the carnival, even playing a bit of golf. Now that’s the way to settle into a new place. Join a golf club. Great way to get to know people.”
“My cue to leave.” Mary stood up and headed back out to the front office, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Liam grinned. His golf obsession was well known. “And he’s volunteering for the Wax Auction in the Oak.”
“What the hell is a wax auction, anyway? I saw a poster for it,” I asked.
Liam rubbed his hands together with enthusiasm. “I was going to talk to you about it. Basically some of the local men have volunteered to be waxed. The beauticians from Brid’s place are lined up for the job. Raring to go. We’re looking for all of the businesses in the town to contribute.”
“Waxed? What do you mean, waxed?”
“I can see where your mind’s going. Back out of the gutter with you. Chest and legs just. But we need people to bid. Businesses especially. I’m doing the auction. Thought we might even persuade Molloy to do it – loosen him up a bit.” His eyes lit up suddenly. “Hey, why don’t you bid for your sculptor? There’s many a local female would pay to see him with his top off.”
“I’ll take that as my cue to leave, shall I?” I finished my coffee and stood up.
“Ah now, you’re no craic. Hold on, I’ll come out with you. I need a cigarette.”
“When did you start smoking again?” I hadn’t seen Liam smoke in years.
He shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
Liam walked me to the door and stood on the step, then gave me his mug to hold while he lit a cigarette. He shook out the match, then exhaled a cloud of smoke, saying, “So why are you so interested in this French lady?”
“It seemed very sad, that’s all.”
“She may well have had her problems, Ben. No one really knows what goes on in other people’s lives.”
I looked at him. “Have you heard something?”
He avoided my eye, glanced down at the ground where he had flicked his ash. “No, not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”
“Well, maybe the odd story,” he conceded.
“What kind of story?”
“Oh look, that wouldn’t be fair, Ben. The poor woman is dead. Far better to let her rest in peace.”
He stubbed out his barely-smoked cigarette with his foot, placed his hand briefly on my shoulder, and went back into the office.