A PANICKED PHONE call from a client meant that I had to go straight to court the next morning without going to the office, so I couldn’t compare numbers until later.
The rain pelted down as solicitors, guards, and punters crowded their way up the steep stone steps into the old courthouse. I was waylaid in the aisle by Molloy. To my embarrassment, I flushed.
“Are you acting for Iggy McDaid?” he said.
I was relieved. Apparently we had returned to professional formality.
“I’m applying to get his driving licence back. Why?”
Molloy lowered his tone. “He’s ossified, that’s why.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Where is he?”
Molloy pointed towards the door. “Under the stairs. Mouthing off to anyone who’ll listen, making a right nuisance of himself. Just thought you should know.”
“Thanks. I’ll have a word with him.”
Sighing, I fought my way back out of the courtroom to the foyer, which by now was packed full of steaming people, with the usual collection of smokers hanging around the doorway. It smelled like wet sheep. I found Iggy slouching against the rickety stairway leading to the gallery above the courtroom, hands in his pockets, singing quietly to himself. He stopped when he saw me.
“How are ye doin’, solicitor?” he slurred in recognition. “Am I up?”
I held my breath. The stale booze from his breath and stale sweat from the rest of him was a fairly lethal combination.
“Not yet, Iggy. I think we might have to adjourn it. What do you think?”
“What for?”
“I just think it might be the wisest.”
“But …” As he withdrew his left hand from his pocket to steady himself for a proper protest, a filthy handkerchief came with it and fell to the ground. It fell hard, as if there was something wrapped in it.
I leaned forward to pick it up, but Iggy put his hand out to stop me, and with a mammoth effort, he bent down, grabbed the handkerchief, and pulled himself back up to his full height. As he did so, whatever was wrapped inside the cloth slipped out. I caught a brief glimpse of something black and metal before he grabbed it again and rammed it back into his pocket. Luckily, the whole procedure seemed to exhaust him and he offered no resistance when I explained to him that his chances of having his driving licence restored right after a drunken appearance before the judge were pretty slim.
I returned to the courtroom just in time; the judge had already started on the licensing list. I was relieved to see it was Judge Barney Power, a pragmatic sort, as I took my place on the practitioners’ bench in front of the clerk. Molloy was at the far end with a stack of files in front of him; he prosecutes the garda cases for the state. I gave him a nod of thanks and he smiled.
Auctioneers’ licences, pub licences, and removals of disqualification orders – most of them for the offence of drunken driving – all are called before the criminal list. Iggy was in the final category. When his name was called by the clerk, I stood up.
“I appear for that applicant, Judge. I wonder if you might adjourn that matter until next month?”
As I spoke, I heard a disturbance at the back of the court and in my peripheral vision I saw someone push their way up through the packed courtroom. My heart sank. Somehow I managed to keep my eyes firmly fixed on the judge as Iggy staggered up into the witness box and stood there, hands clasped behind his back, swaying regally. Through some miracle the judge didn’t notice him or, I suspect, chose not to. As he checked with his registrar for the adjournment date, I saw Molloy nod at one of the guards who removed Iggy and bundled him to the back of the court.
Adjournment granted, I sat down in relief. I had barely done so when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Hugh O’Connor kneeling behind me, his face so close to mine I could smell his toothpaste.
“That was some performance, eh?”
I was noncommittal. “Mmm.”
He grinned. “Iggy McDaid, the only man in Inishowen who can sing and hum at the same time.”
I suppressed the urge to smile and he saw it. Was clearly pleased by it.
“Do you need me yet?” he asked.
“Not yet. Might be this afternoon before it’s reached.”
“That’s grand. I’m not going anywhere. Just wanted to let you know I’m here.” He winked.
After he left I leaned across to whisper to Molloy: “Hugh O’Connor. First time in the list. I’ll be looking for copy statements.”
He nodded. “I want to have a word with you about that one.”
The judge rose at one and the court cleared till two o’clock. I sat in beside Molloy.
“You wanted to talk to me about O’Connor?”
“Yes.” He leafed through the stack of court files in front of him until he found the right one, opened it, and glanced through it. “We have no statements as yet on that one, only garda statements. We’re waiting on the farmer to come in and make one. You’ll have it as soon as we do.”
I took a note. “What’s the allegation? I know there’s a dangerous driving charge in there.”
Molloy read the inside cover of the file. “There sure is. Crazy driving, apparently. Ended up in a field in Moville – God knows how he walked away from it. Managed to drive away, as a matter of fact. Then he came back the next day all sweetness and light with a present of a bottle of whiskey, and flowers for the missus.”
“You’re kidding.” This time I couldn’t help but smile.
Molloy didn’t. “I’m not. Anyway, the farmer reported it, despite the whiskey and flowers, and we arrested your boy the next day. He was released on station bail and bailed out by his mother.” He closed the file. “You know who that kid is, of course?”
“Leah said he’s Hugh O’Connor’s grandson.”
Molloy nodded.
“Is the old man still alive, by the way?” I had been meaning to ask Leah. “He seems to have been out of the news for a long time.”
“Died about ten years ago. Your client’s mother was O’Connor’s only daughter.”
By half past two, Hugh O’Connor’s case had been adjourned for two weeks, and I was finished in court. I headed back to the office, anxious not to put off any longer the task of comparing the number on Marguerite’s phone bill with the number Simon had given me.
I dumped my court files on the reception desk, took the bundle of Marguerite’s envelopes from my briefcase, and ran upstairs, where I opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled out the file tagged Miscellaneous Contact Details.
I quickly found Simon Howard’s number and compared it to the one on the bill, checking and rechecking with the precision of a lottery winner comparing numbers on a winning ticket, but they did not match. And a quick scan through the text numbers showed that Simon Howard’s number did not appear anywhere on the bill at all. Maybe he had been telling the truth. Maybe he hadn’t known Marguerite very well. I put the letters and the bills in the file. With a mammoth effort I then put the file aside and forced myself to focus on work.
Half an hour later, having re-calculated the same sum on some messy probate papers for the third time, I conceded it wasn’t working; I wasn’t working. No matter how hard I tried, my discoveries of the night before kept intruding on my thoughts. So I threw the papers I’d been working on into the shredder, snatched up my coat, and headed down the stairs.
“Just going out for a bit,” I called to a startled Leah as I ran out the door. But I didn’t wait for a response.
As I drove out on the Ballyliffin road, I became aware that it was exactly a week since I had last made this journey to the Isle of Doagh. It seemed much longer. Today the beach was deserted – not surprising for a Wednesday afternoon in September, but I was pleased. I always feel the sea is company enough when you need it. I parked my car on the grass above the beach just where I had parked it that morning, locked it and went down on to the sand and towards the rocks where Marguerite’s body had been found.
Before I reached them, I stopped to gaze across the sea towards Lagg. The sky was an eerie yellow and gray as if there was a storm brewing, but visibility was surprisingly clear. I could see Marguerite and Simon’s cottages across the bay, like tiny white dots in the green patch above the beach.
As I walked slowly along the shore, I tried to work out what was bothering me so much. I had a panicky sense that Marguerite was disappearing from view too fast. She had no ancestors in the area, no parents or grandparents. It was almost as if she hadn’t been here long enough for her existence to be real, and memories are short. Soon, I was afraid there would be no trace left of her at all. She was like a footstep in the sand, washed away by the next tide.
I needed to find some way to use the little bits of information that had fallen into my lap; to find out the truth of what had happened to Marguerite before she was gone completely. The first thing was to find out who she had been ringing and texting so obsessively. I took her phone bill from my pocket, changed my mobile phone setting to number withheld, and dialed the number. But before I could press call, the phone vibrated in my hand. It made me jump.
It was Leah. She sounded breathless. “Ben, I don’t know where you are, but I thought I’d better remind you about your four o’clock appointment in case you’d forgotten. They’re here.”
“Oh, Christ. Tell them I’m sorry, I got delayed. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I dashed up the hill towards my car.
The road from Ballyliffin to Glendara is hilly and full of blind bends, but as I entered the long straight stretch leading into the town, I began to relax. Nearly there, I thought as I glanced at my watch. My clients had been early to begin with so I calculated I’d only be five minutes late.
I saw a flash of silver in the distance. The road was wide but still, I slowed down, just to be safe. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a car was coming towards me, swerving dangerously across the white line. Jesus, I thought, that driver is drunk.
As the car came closer, it seemed to increase its speed. My heart pounding, I glanced frantically to my left and right, but there was nowhere for me to pull in. I held my breath and tried to concentrate on the road. It was no good. Literally meters away from me, the other car swerved right into the center of the road, forcing me off the tarmac completely. Somehow I managed to keep my hands on the steering wheel as I desperately tried to keep control. The Mini bumped wildly along the grass verge as I frantically braked and braked again. It seemed like minutes, but must have only been seconds until finally the car slowed down and came to an abrupt halt. Immediately, the outer wheels lost their grip, and I felt the car lurch violently to one side as it slid into the ditch. I was thrown towards the passenger seat and pulled back again as the seatbelt tautened and caught me in its grasp.
I opened my eyes with no idea when I’d closed them and looked down, terrified of what I might see. There was broken glass on my knees, and my hands were bleeding, but somehow I managed to unbuckle the seatbelt and found I could move my arms and legs. I pushed down the door handle, my hands shaking violently. The door creaked loudly as I tried to push it open. I felt weak, my whole body trembling, but I succeeded in opening it wide enough to be able to climb out and fall on to my knees on the grass verge. I tried to stand up, but my legs gave way again.
I was just about to make another attempt to stand when I felt a firm pair of arms lift me up, and help me away from the car. I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful to hear Liam McLaughlin’s voice.
“You’re all right, pet, you’ll be all right.”
He put his arm around me and walked me a couple of meters down the road before easing me gently into the front seat of his car.
Close to tears, I struggled to speak. “The other car … what happened to the other car?”
“I don’t know, pet, I never saw another car. I just came up behind you and saw you in the ditch,” he said. I tried to tell him what had happened, but his phone was already against his ear. “Hush now, I’m going to call an ambulance.”
Within minutes the ambulance from Glendara arrived, and I was taken to the hospital. After a thorough examination and a few bandages for the cuts on my hands, I was told that nothing was broken and I was free to go if I had someone to collect me and bring me home.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room feeling more than a little self-conscious, I finally rang Leah and told her what had happened. I was just about to ring Maeve to ask her if she could come and collect me when Molloy stormed into the room with a face like thunder.
“Christ, Ben. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“A few scratches. No bones broken.”
He sat down heavily in the seat beside me. “God knows how. Your car is a mess. What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know. I was driving back from Ballyliffin, when I met a car. It swerved on to my side and pushed me off the road. That’s all I can tell you.”
“There was no sign of any other car when we arrived.”
“Well, that’s what happened,” I said belligerently.
“Did I say I didn’t believe you? We know there was another car. We found skidmarks that weren’t yours.”
“Sorry.”
“What make was the other car?”
“Big. Silver.”
Molloy shook his head. “Great. Silver and big. Should take us no time to track that one down.” He shot me a half-smile.
My eyes welled; I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to cry or laugh. “Don’t be mean to me. I’m sore.”
The bit about being sore was true. I was beginning to ache all over and my neck and shoulders in particular were in agony.
Molloy’s face softened. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you. You gave me a fright. Come on, I’ll take you home. I have all your things. We arranged for Hal McKinney to collect your poor old Mini. He has it in the garage – says he might be able to rescue it.”
He reached for my hand, but I shoved it into the pocket of my jacket. If he held it, I knew I would cry.
Four hours later I woke up, still aching all over. I sat up slowly. My neck and shoulders remained painful, but it was more of a dull ache than it had been earlier, and the area on my chest where the seatbelt had caught me was really tender when I touched it. I was going to have some impressive bruises in the morning. Sitting on the bedside locker were the remains of the tea, toast, and soup that Maeve had brought up to me a couple of hours previously, before I had fallen asleep. It occurred to me that if I hadn’t been feeling so lousy, I would have laughed at the idea of being nursed by a vet.
I looked at the clock. It was twenty past nine. I decided I should try and get up for a few hours, so I would be more likely to sleep tonight. So I struggled out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown, and went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Immediately Guinness appeared at the window, and I let him in, pathetically glad of the company.
“How are you, my old mate? Did the vet feed you?”
The cat wound himself around my legs, purring loudly. I took my tea into the sitting room and curled up on the sofa with him stretched out on my knee. And as I sipped the tea, my eyes fell on the pile of items Molloy had taken from my car. Marguerite’s mobile phone bill was lying on top. I wondered if he had noticed it. My own phone was there too.
I picked it up, checked that the setting on my phone was still number withheld, and dialed the number from the bill. It went straight through to voicemail.
Hello. This is Councillor Aidan Doherty. I am unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone or call me at my office.