I LIFTED MY head gingerly off the pillow knowing that any sudden movement was going to hurt, opened my eyes a tiny fraction, and checked the time on my watch. It was ten to twelve. With a huge effort, I flipped the pillow over and laid my hot cheek down again on the cooler side. I stretched my arm out for the glass of water I had at least had the foresight to bring up the night before, and promptly knocked it over. God, just what I needed: a red wine hangover.
I dragged myself out of bed, picked up the glass from the floor, and shuffled to the bathroom to refill it. As I fell back into bed, I caught sight of a crumpled sheet of paper on my bedside table. I picked it up and smoothed it out, then sighed. It was one of my drunken lists. Across the top I had written the name Marguerite. Underneath I had added 1. Death certificate. I hadn’t made it as far as number two. I searched my addled memory for what, in my intoxicated state, I had meant – but no luck.
With a mammoth effort, I threw off the covers and I made my way across the landing towards the shower. A loud scratching noise at the window made me jump. I opened the window to let Guinness in.
“Well, hello. What have you been up to all night, eh?”
He jumped down from the windowsill, purring loudly as he weaved in between my legs, my lack of co-ordination allowing him to trip me up repeatedly as I stumbled towards the bathroom.
It came back to me while I was inhaling my third cup of coffee. Molloy had told me at the funeral that the post-mortem had turned up one or two things he couldn’t tell me about, and last night – somewhere between my first and second bottle of wine – I had been trying to figure out how I could get a copy of that report. It was then that I remembered ordering a death certificate for a client in a probate case about a year beforehand and being surprised when the registrar sent me the certificate with the post-mortem report attached. I had wondered at the time if it had been a mistake, sent in error simply because the certificate was ordered by a solicitor. But maybe it could happen again? It was worth a try. I didn’t see any ethical problem in ordering Marguerite’s death certificate. Death certificates were documents of public record.
As I washed my cup, Molloy’s words echoed in my mind. “You’re the only one pushing for this.” I had no doubt he was telling the truth. It did seem, as far as everyone else was concerned, that the whole episode was finished, conveniently dismissed as the unfortunate suicide of a disturbed woman with a tragic past. Marguerite’s death had provoked some mild sympathy, but no one cared, not really. She was dead and buried now and would be forgotten about by this morning.
Well, maybe not by everybody. Phyllis cared, that had become clear over the past few days. And I’d spent enough time thinking about things. It was time to actually do something.
I drove the five miles along the coast road to Glendara in silence; a sore head prohibits radio, I’ve discovered. I rolled down the window to breathe in the salty air, and it helped. The day was gray and blustery, the sea was streaked with purple and green and there were lacy patches of white water visible in the distance.
I drove through Glendara and on out to Ballyliffen past the golf links and the Isle of Doagh where Marguerite had been found. I parked the car in front of the old Atlantic Hotel and battled through the wind to get to the front door.
My heart sank when I saw who was behind the reception desk.
“Hi, Jackie.”
Jackie Breen, Carole-from-the-Oak’s sister, looked up. She has always reminded me of a Persian cat – fluffy but spiteful. “Ben. What brings you out here?”
“I’m after one of your guests.”
Her eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Sounds ominous.”
I smiled. “Not really. I just wondered if I could have a word with her, if she’s about. Adeline Veillard? Or Abra,” I said as an afterthought.
The receptionist didn’t even need to look. “You’re out of luck. She’s gone. Checked out this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye. Was only ever booked in for the one night, and she left at the crack of dawn this morning. Didn’t even have breakfast, I don’t think. Can I …?”
I cut her off before she could quiz me further. “No, it’s fine, Jackie. Thanks anyway.”
I left the hotel reeling. I had let Marguerite down all over again. And I had the same damn hangover as the last time.
I drove back into Glendara, made my way straight to the office, and quickly typed up a letter to the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Deaths in Letterkenny. I took a stamp from the drawer and dropped the envelope in the post box.
Standing on the footpath outside the post office, I realized that I didn’t feel like going back home. Maybe because she had seemed to be one of the few people to be genuinely distressed about Marguerite’s death, I found myself propelled towards Phyllis’s book shop. She opened sometimes on a Sunday afternoon – completely dependent on her own whim, of course.
As I approached the shop, I noticed a group of teenagers hanging around the wooden bench outside, chatting. One of the boys waved at me and I smiled back. It was Hugh O’Connor. He was sitting at the very center of the group, and even in the few seconds that I watched, it was clear that he was the star of the show. Although those on the periphery glanced briefly in my direction to see who had gained his attention, they immediately transferred their gaze back to him, watching him intently not only when he was speaking, but checking for his response when others were. An acne-covered, gangly-looking boy sitting beside him seemed particularly in awe of him. Hugh O’Connor had something, there was no doubt about that. That kind of charisma rarely leaves a person. If you don’t have it when you’re eighteen, you’ll never have it, and if you have it at eighteen, you’ll have it at eighty-five.
The doorbell jangled when I entered the shop and Phyllis looked at me from behind her newspaper. Today she was wearing bright purple, from top to toe. The headline on the front page read council row on re-zoning.
“Load of nonsense,” she said, putting the paper down. “Ben, how are you?”
“Just in for a potter, if that’s okay. And to see how you’re doing.”
She removed her glasses. “Oh, not that great, to be honest. Hard to believe someone so young could be here one day and gone the next. Just like that. I mean, she was here last Saturday, sitting on this very stool.”
“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk to you at the funeral.”
“No, well, I wasn’t really in the humor.”
“She didn’t seem to know many people, did she?”
“So you’d think. The church wasn’t exactly packed, was it?” Phyllis pursed her lips. “I don’t know. You’d think people would pay their respects at the end, no matter what went on during life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh nothing, don’t mind me.”
Before I could probe any further, there was movement behind one of the bookshelves, and I jumped slightly as David Howard, Simon’s son, emerged from one of the aisles and disappeared back down another. Despite the wooden floor, he had managed to move completely silently.
Phyllis leaned forward. “That boy gives me the willies.”
“He doesn’t say a lot,” I conceded.
“No, I mean, he really gives me the willies. Do you mind staying with me till he leaves?”
“Seriously?” I was surprised; Phyllis is no shrinking violet.
She looked a little embarrassed. “Is that okay?”
“Sure. If you want me to.”
After a few minutes, David came up to the counter with a couple of tatty-looking hardbacks. He gave me a nod of recognition, paid without a word, and left the shop. Phyllis looked relieved.
Before I could say anything further the door reopened and two women came in with what looked like school book-lists in their hands.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I said. “I’ll go have a browse.”
Phyllis pointed towards the stairs. “Browse away. There’s some more new stock upstairs, if you’re interested. It’s that box I started unpacking when you were here last week. I never got around to finishing it. I’m not exactly motivated at the moment. It’s still by the window.”
Fifteen minutes later I staggered back down the stairs with my arms full of paperbacks. Never shop with a hangover; your judgement is shot.
Phyllis was standing at the window, arms crossed. When she heard my tread she turned.
She tut-tutted. “Ben, you’re like me. You think you’re going to live to be a million and be able to read everything you want to.”
“I know.” I dropped the books on the counter. “I think I’m developing a problem.”
“And I never see any of them coming back,” she said. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that your cottage must be beginning to look like this shop.”
Phyllis buys back many of the books she sells. It’s no wonder the town doesn’t have a library.
I walked over to join her by the window. Hugh and his gang were still outside.
Phyllis commented, “That boy is way too handsome for his own good.”
Although there were at least six kids out there, there was no question as to who she was talking about.
“Good-looking boy, all right,” I said.
She tapped her finger on the glass and Hugh looked up and waved. “Favorite spot for those kids lately, for some reason. Hugh seems to be always there, especially on a Saturday.”
As we watched, Hugh got up from the bench and left with the gangly boy who had been sitting beside him. The other kids immediately dispersed too, their reason for being there having departed with the two lads.
Phyllis turned back towards the shop, and I followed her to the cash register.
“His mother was my best friend in school, you know. She was a stunner in her youth too. She had him so young though – her looks didn’t last, I’m afraid. Think it’s made her suffer a bit.”
I poked about in my bag for my wallet while Phyllis checked each of the books.
“Three euro okay for each of these?” she said.
I left the bookshop with two bulging paper bags in my arms. It was all I could do not to drop them both on the pavement when a voice behind me made me jump.
“You’re Ben.”
I turned. David Howard was standing by the bench where the kids had been sitting.
“Oh, hi. David, isn’t it? How are you?” I stumbled over my words. Had he been waiting for me?
“Fine.”
I struggled to come up with something to say. “Em … I saw your dog in the square yesterday. Sable, isn’t it? She’s beautiful.”
“I saw you with my father in the pub,” he said.
“Yes. We went for lunch after the funeral.”
“He doesn’t usually go to the funerals of his women.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Other than my mother’s.” David spoke as if he was talking to himself. “He went to hers.”
“I’m sorry,” I said uneasily, not entirely sure what I was sorry for.
“He has an appetite. He says it’s an appetite for life but it’s not. It’s for people. He consumes people. And they don’t even notice he’s doing it, most of the time.”
He spoke as if he were explaining something to someone exceedingly stupid – me, presumably. And when he had finished he looked at me expectantly, his father’s eyes unblinking, waiting for me to flinch while my mind raced, searching for a way to respond.
But my mouth was still open when he walked away, leaving me standing on the footpath with two bags of books. Now I could see why Phyllis had said that he gave her the willies. What the hell had he meant; the funerals of his women? Was Marguerite one of Simon’s women?
The car park of the Beacon Hall was almost full when I pulled into one of the last remaining spaces, locked the car and walked towards the main door. I wished Maeve was with me.
Once inside, I followed the sound of voices up the stairs towards the public hall. The room was packed but hushed; a speech was being made at the top. There was a desk to the right of the door with a very pretty girl handing out catalogues, and a long table with glasses of red and white wine. I took a brochure and helped myself to a glass of white.
Through the crowd I could see sculptures on low plinths placed at intervals along the walls. The collection seemed to be mostly figures, almost African in style. I made my way to the closest, a figure sitting on a block with its head in its hands and its elbows resting on its knees. It was impossible to tell whether the figure was male or female. It had long legs and tiny feet, no eyes, no features at all, in fact, apart from a rough impression of a nose, but it was very striking.
I searched the sea of faces for someone I knew and finally recognized a voice: one that was utterly incapable of a whisper. Liam McLaughlin was lurking behind one of the pieces chatting to a couple of people.
He greeted me with a grin. “Didn’t know you were a patron of the arts. Or is it the artist?”
I retaliated. “I suppose there must be some tax relief in it, if you’re here.”
“Naturally.”
“Not listening to the speeches?” I asked, nodding towards the front of the crowd as the people Liam had been talking to moved away.
“Nah. It’s Aidan Doherty. A lot of nonsense about how well the Council are supporting the arts … heard it a hundred times before.” Liam took a sip of his wine and made a face. “Although he looks bloody awful. He’s lost a lot of weight.”
I glanced up at the stage. Doherty was certainly very thin.
“So, what do you think?” Liam gestured towards the sculpture closest to him. “Is he any good?”
I looked. It was another figure with its head buried in its hands. Though again the face was not visible this one was clearly a woman and it spoke of utter despair; it was hard not to be genuinely moved, looking at it.
“Not cheap.”
“No, I expect not.”
I heard a voice at my shoulder, and a familiar scent in my nostrils. “So you came.”
I turned and Simon smiled broadly, a glass of red in his hand.
“And what do you think of my humble offerings?”
“Great – I mean – they’re wonderful. Honestly.”
“Why, thank you,” he bowed. “No sign of your vet friend?”
“She’s on call, unfortunately.”
“Well, I’m very glad you came anyway.”
“Simon?” The pretty girl from the desk appeared at his side and whispered into his ear.
“Better go. Prospective purchaser,” he said with a wink, pushing his way back through the crowd.
For the next while I watched Simon work the room while I chatted with Liam. It was clear that his charm didn’t hurt his sales. But two mineral waters later, I decided I’d had enough culture for one evening.
Before I reached the door, I felt a hand on my arm.
“Don’t tell me you were going to leave without saying goodbye?” Simon made a sad clown face.
“You looked busy.”
“I would far rather have been talking to you. To rectify things, how about you have dinner with me some evening? If you don’t think I’m being too forward, that is.”
I gave him one of my rabbit-in-the-headlights looks. Was it a good idea to spend the evening alone with him? I wasn’t at all sure it was. But I did want to find out how close he really had been to Marguerite. Although God knows how I was going to broach it. Was Marguerite one of your women? Oh, and by the way, do a lot of your women die?
Aloud I said, “That would be nice. Thank you.”
He bowed graciously. “I’ll give you a call at the office.”
And I fled.