AFTER WE SEPARATED I felt at a bit of a loose end – the office wasn’t open on Saturdays. Believe me, I was well aware of how sad that made me appear.
I called into Stoop’s newsagents to pick up the Saturday papers. When I came out, I caught sight of Simon and David standing in the middle of the square with an elegant, black Great Dane leaning against Simon’s legs – the famous Sable, I assumed. I stopped, opened the paper, and pretended to be engrossed in it for a minute or two.
As I watched them over the top of it, it occurred to me, yet again, that the son really was cut from a different cloth from his father. Where Simon was tall and broad-shouldered in an overtly masculine kind of way, David was narrow and slight, and somewhat effeminate. And from what I could see, although they were too far away for me to hear what they were saying, they were having a row. Simon gestured angrily while his son stood with his hands clasped in front of him, looking bored and disengaged.
Suddenly, he turned away in exasperation. But before he managed to look in my direction, I darted around the corner, walking quickly in the direction of my car.
Simon’s ebullient company had kept my demons at bay over lunch, but they returned with a vengeance as I drove by the garda station on my way home. I still couldn’t believe that Molloy had given up so easily. The suicide verdict was wrong, I was sure of it, but what could I do? I wondered if there was any point in driving out to Ballyliffin to see Marguerite’s daughter. I had asked the priest where she was staying, thinking that maybe if I talked to her, I could convince her to push the guards into pursuing their inquiry. But now I wasn’t so sure.
This was one problem I couldn’t talk through with Molloy. So I drove past the garda station and pulled into the parking area in front of the veterinary clinic.
The door swung open easily but the reception area was deserted, so I called out, but there was no reply. I checked my watch. It was five to two; everyone would still be at lunch. I sat in one of the seats in the waiting area and tried to engross myself in a dog magazine. There must be someone about if the door was unlocked, I decided. After a few minutes, it occurred to me that Maeve might be out in the back area where they examined the bigger farm animals. I made it only as far as the back door before I collided with her, all boiler suited up, tugging at her boots.
“When did you appear? I never heard you.” She leaned against the door for balance.
“A few minutes ago. Are you in the middle of something?”
“Just finished. For the minute, at any rate. Something up?”
“I fancied a chat.”
She grinned. “Have we not just had one?”
“Without company.”
“Right.” Maeve shrugged off the boiler suit, stepped out of it and hung it on the back of the door. “More coffee?”
“Great.”
I followed her into the back office, perched on her desk and tapped a pen against the desk distractedly as she switched on the kettle and spooned some instant coffee into two mugs.
When she had finished, she leaned back against the counter. “Okay. Stop tapping and spit it out.”
“What do you think of Marguerite’s death – honestly? Do you think it was suicide?”
“Why? What do you mean? I thought you said the guards …”
I nodded. “They did. But I’m not convinced.”
She raised her eyebrows, just as she had when I had been quizzing Simon. I began to wonder if this was a mistake.
I picked up the pen again. “You did say you thought it was strange when you first heard about it.”
Maeve crossed her arms. “I suppose I did. It was because she didn’t seem the type. But it’s never something you expect, is it? I mean, I hardly knew her really. Not personally. I wouldn’t have known if she was depressed.”
“No, I suppose not,” I said noncommittally.
“Do you have any reason to think it wasn’t suicide?”
I couldn’t tell Maeve about Marguerite’s visit to the office. Telling Molloy, a guard, was one thing, but telling Maeve would be a step too far. “Nothing definite, I suppose,” I said. “Just a feeling I can’t seem to shake off. I can’t help but think that something doesn’t quite fit, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
The kettle boiled and switched itself off.
“So what do you think it was, if it wasn’t suicide? An accident?” Maeve asked as she poured boiling water into the two mugs.
“Murder?” she said, looking incredulous. “Jesus, Ben, you’d want to be pretty sure of your ground before you start tossing that word around. Remember what happened the last time.”
I stirred my coffee. “I know. But I wondered if maybe I should go and see the daughter before she goes back. What do you think?”
Maeve’s eyes widened. “Why would you want to do that, for God’s sake? She nearly took the nose off you at the funeral.”
“I thought maybe she might be able to persuade Molloy …”
“Ben.” Maeve waved her spoon at me. “Don’t meddle. The guards know what they’re doing. You’re a solicitor, not a detective.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. Forget I said anything. Look, are you going to this art exhibition tomorrow night?”
“No. I told you earlier – I’m on call. As always,” Maeve grumbled.
“Ah, go on. Can’t you swap with someone?”
She frowned. “Now why would you need me to go to an art exhibition with you? You’re not going to start asking that sculptor guy more questions about Marguerite, are you? I wondered what you were up to at lunch.”
“No,” I responded indignantly. “I just thought we could do with a bit of culture, that’s all.”
Maeve’s expression changed. A grin crept over her face. “You like him. You fancy the Scottish sculptor and you want me to ride shotgun.”
I looked away. “Something like that.”
She rubbed her hands together. “Excellent. Well, good on you. Still can’t go, I’m afraid. You’ll have to fly solo this time.”
While Maeve went looking for biscuits, I gazed out the window, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. Then something caught my eye in the corner of the yard. I looked closer, but my brain had difficulty processing what I was seeing for a second, it was so ludicrous. Sitting upright in a basin, with its forelegs sticking out in front, wearing a serene expression and a bright yellow bucket on its head, was a sheep. I laughed.
“What on earth are you doing to that poor creature out the back?”
She joined me at the window. “Oh, the ewe. She had lambs a couple of hours ago and the womb prolapsed. Couldn’t get it back in, so she’s sitting in a basin of disinfectant until the swelling goes down.”
“And what’s with the bucket? She looks like a man in a top hat waiting for a whiskey and soda.”
She grinned. “That’s to stop her moving. If you put something on their heads, they stay still.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Incredible. I’d never have known that.”
It was impossible to miss the note of warning in her voice when she replied, “We all have to stick to what we’re trained for, Ben.”