I TOOK A taxi to work the next morning, a little achy but generally okay. My Mini was in much worse shape; I caught a glimpse of her on Hal’s ramp as I walked past the garage on the way to get a paper. He said he could fix her; it would take at least a week but he promised me a car on loan in a couple of days when he had one to spare. It was going to be awkward for me to survive without a car, but it did occur to me that at least it was Hal’s garage business I was availing myself of, rather than the undertakers.
At the office, I set about tackling the post. I was determined to get some work done this morning, since yesterday had been a complete write-off. I opened a large brown hand-delivered envelope first and was relieved to see it contained the contracts for the land in Malin Head for Dolan and Gallagher. I buzzed Leah.
“Dolan and Gallagher’s contracts are here. Can you ring the States and tell them that I’ll get back to them when I’ve had a chance to go through them properly?”
“Thank God. They’re driving me bonkers. Gallagher rang again yesterday afternoon. I know they think I’m lying to them, that I have them hidden away somewhere. I’ll ring them at nine a.m. their time.”
I moved on to the next envelope. The top right corner bore the stamp of the Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths. I sat back. This had to be Marguerite’s death certificate – so much for concentrating on work. I stared at the envelope for a few seconds, willing it to contain what I wanted it to before I tore it open and withdrew the four sheets inside. Just as I had hoped, the Registrar had sent me a copy of the post-mortem report with the certificate.
I scanned through the death cert first. As expected it listed the cause of death as drowning, and I noted that Marguerite’s age was forty-two. I turned my attention to the post-mortem report. On the first page, Marguerite’s height and weight and time of death were recorded; the pathologist had estimated a time between seven p.m. and midnight on Tuesday, September 12, 2015. As I scanned the rest of the page, much of the language I didn’t understand, but there was mention of bruising to the back of the skull with the words post- or ante-mortem undetermined and at the bottom was a section marked Identification Features where the strange tattoo was mentioned and described.
I turned to the next page, where my eyes were irresistibly drawn to a section for Additional Remarks, just before the signature of the pathologist. There were only two.
1. Traces of clonazepam found in the stomach.
2. Deceased was approximately eight weeks’ pregnant at death.
My breath caught as I read it again. I walked over to the window clutching the report to my chest. Marguerite was pregnant. My mind began to race. Who was the father? Aidan Doherty? Was he the man she had been seeing? I had a vague memory of the Matron in Letterkenny Hospital saying something about his wife. Was that why he hadn’t been at the funeral – because he was married? And was that what Phyllis had meant about paying your respects at the end no matter what went on during life?
The questions just kept coming. But my thoughts were interrupted when my phone buzzed. Dr. Brendan Quinn was waiting for me downstairs. I had forgotten he was due this morning. I asked Leah to make some coffee and send him up.
I was taken aback when I saw him. He was much changed. He was paler than I had ever seen him, his holiday tan long gone, and the dark shadows under his eyes made him look as if he hadn’t slept since our last conversation. He sat heavily on the seat I offered him.
When he spoke, it was as if he had been holding his breath for a long time. “I want to talk to you about Marguerite Etienne. I think I may need some advice.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
He clarified his words. “Professional advice. Which means this conversation must be completely confidential. I’m relying on solicitor-client confidentiality.”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He looked relieved. There was a pause.
“I’m listening,” I said.
He swallowed. “Marguerite Etienne came to see me about a year ago, in my professional capacity. I suspect you may have guessed that from our conversation the other day.”
He waited for a reaction, but I didn’t give him one.
“She wanted to talk to me about her experiences with the Damascan cult. She wished to deal with them, finally. Alain, her ex-partner … I presume you know about him?”
I nodded. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot. Was he drinking, I wondered.
He smiled weakly. “Yes. I got the impression you had done your research. Anyway, Alain had just died, and I think she finally felt she was free in some fashion – free to deal with what had happened to her and get back in contact with her daughter.” He sighed. “So I helped her. Helped her come to terms with her experiences in the cult. Marguerite was a very damaged person. She had coped over the years by suppressing memories, by building up walls and never letting anyone close to her.”
He stopped. Suddenly I had a horrible feeling I could see where this was going.
“And?” I said.
“We became close.”
“How close?”
Quinn stared at the desk, an expression of utter misery on his face. “We had a relationship. A sexual relationship.”
I didn’t speak for a few seconds. Eventually I blurted out the obvious. “Is that not a breach of your professional code?”
“Of course it is,” he snapped. “Not to mention my marriage vows. What I want to know is what I should do about it. Professionally speaking.”
I was incredulous. “You’re worried about that now? When the only person who could make a complaint about it is dead?”
He didn’t reply, but guilt was etched across his face.
“Did you know she was pregnant when she died?” I said.
He looked up, paled even further. “No, I didn’t.”
“Two months.”
“Two months?” He looked confused. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. It’s in the autopsy report. I got it this morning.”
“In that case, the baby wasn’t mine,” he said in an odd voice. “Our affair ended six months ago. She must have been involved with somebody else.”
“I have no idea.” The pain on his face was unmistakable. He was telling the truth.
“What happened?” I asked. “This doesn’t seem like you, Brendan.”
He shrugged. “I fell in love with her. That’s the honest truth. I didn’t set out to.”
“Did you continue to see her after?” I asked. “As her therapist, I mean?”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t have, but … well, she wanted me to and I guess I wanted to as well. That was until about two months ago, when she telephoned me and said that she couldn’t see me any more.”
“Did she say why?”
“No. She was a bit strange about it. I got the impression that someone was pushing her into it. Pushing her into breaking off contact with me.” He looked down again. “Maybe it was the person she was seeing.”
Realization dawned. “So you did know she was seeing someone else. Or at least you suspected she was.”
“No, I …”
“You think that person knew about your affair with her, don’t you? And might still make a complaint about you. That’s why you’re coming to me for advice.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “All you care about is saving your own skin.”
“No,” he protested. “That’s not true. I was worried about her when she stopped seeing me. Marguerite was dealing with serious issues she had suppressed for a very long time. With my support she was coping well. She was ready again for a relationship with her daughter, and she finally seemed to be happy in Inishowen. Obviously, she hadn’t told me that she was in a new relationship, but I suppose that’s understandable given our history. But she was in a good place. I would have been anxious for that to continue.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“About six weeks ago. I saw her once more after that phone call.”
“How did she seem?”
“Edgy, slightly defensive. I assumed it was because she was uncomfortable about leaving therapy.”
Suddenly I remembered the other item on the Additional Remarks section of the post-mortem report. “Was Marguerite on any medication?”
Quinn shook his head. “Not that I was aware of. I certainly didn’t prescribe any for her. I think it’s unlikely. She wasn’t keen on the idea of drugs of any kind.”
I looked out the window. “So why are you telling me about this now – honestly? If it’s not your own skin you’re worried about?”
“Honestly? I can’t stop thinking about her. Whatever you may believe, I know no one is going to report me at this stage. Marguerite wouldn’t have told anyone about our affair, she wouldn’t want me reported. But after what happened to her, I needed to talk to someone.”
“And you know I can’t pass on what you say, if you tell me as a client,” I added sourly.
“Well, of course I couldn’t tell just anyone,” he conceded. “But I feel so guilty. I know the guards have decided it was suicide and I can’t stand the idea that I might in some way be responsible for that.”
He looked so pathetic that I softened.
“But then if she was in a new relationship …” he said hopefully.
“Maybe you’re off the hook?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He looked wretched. “Could it have been an accident?” he asked feebly.
I was late to meet Maeve at the Oak for lunch, but after Quinn left, I ran a quick search for clonazepam, the drug that had been found in Marguerite’s stomach. I discovered that it was a benzodiazepine; one that was regularly prescribed for the treatment of epilepsy or panic attacks. Which opened up a whole new set of questions. Had Marguerite suffered from epilepsy?
My mind was still reeling when I opened the pub door and my heart sank when I saw who Maeve was talking to at the bar; it was Jackie from the Atlantic Hotel. They were with a taller blond woman who was familiar but whom I couldn’t place. I approached with caution.
Maeve spotted me first. “Oh hi. The girls here have suggested organising a new yoga class. Carole knows another teacher.”
Of course. It was at Marguerite’s yoga class that I’d seen the taller woman. She and Jackie usually arrived together. I couldn’t remember seeing either of them at the funeral.
“Sure, why not?” I shrugged. “It’s a whole week since the last one died.”
Maeve reddened “Maybe it is a bit soon.” She was the only one who looked uncomfortable, which made me feel mean.
“Not at all,” the tall woman insisted. “Sure it’ll take a few weeks to organise anyway. Let’s make a list of who would be interested. You two grab a table, have a think about it, and we’ll be down in a wee minute. Anyone got a pen?”
Maeve looked apologetically at me as she produced a chewed-up red biro from her pocket. I ordered a sandwich and coffee from Carole and headed over to the big table in the corner of the pub. Maeve followed me.
“God, I’m sorry about that,” I said as I dumped my bag on a seat. “Bad morning.”
“Don’t worry about it. I think you’re right, it is too soon. I should have said something myself. How are you feeling, by the way? I thought you’d take a couple of days off work.”
“Can’t afford to. I’m drowning in paperwork. But I’m grand really. Thanks for looking after me yesterday.” I nodded in the direction of the blond woman. “Who’s that one?”
Maeve followed my gaze. “Clodagh O’Connor. You’ve met her before, haven’t you?”
“Not properly. I remember her face from the class.”
Maeve smiled cheekily as she took off her jacket. “Oh – what with your accident I forgot to ask. How did your cultural expedition on Sunday night go?”
For a second, I didn’t know what she meant. Then I felt a jolt of panic. “God, I’d forgotten. I have a date tonight.”
“You’re kidding. That was quick work. This happened at the exhibition?”
“No, well – yes, sort of. I ran into him again on Tuesday on Lagg.”
“Excellent. I want all the gory details.”
Just then, the two women arrived at the table with mugs of coffee.
“Well?” Clodagh demanded. “Who have you come up with?”
The woman was beginning to get under my skin, so I responded by ignoring her completely. I turned to Jackie. “Who’s this new teacher?”
“Some woman from Derry. She teaches in Magee.”
“God, no one told me that!” Clodagh exclaimed. “A Derry wan? Can we not get someone of our own?”
“Derry is only twenty miles up the road,” I said.
“Different jurisdiction. Is there no one from around here who will do it?”
“Our food’s ready,” Maeve told me, glancing over at the bar.
The two women were deep in conversation when we returned, Jackie’s words sounding sympathetic, but the edge was hard to miss. “Sad though, your woman drowning herself like that. All that yoga and meditation didn’t do her much good, did it?”
“I think she was a nervy kind of person beneath all that stuff.” Clodagh’s red nails tapped her coffee mug.
“Why do you say that?” I said.
“Jackie?” Clodagh deferred to her friend like a managing director to a secretary at a board meeting.
Jackie leaned forward conspiratorially. “My Damian was out with her a few weeks back, putting extra locks on her door, and he said she was a bit skitterish.”
“Did he tell the guards that?” I said sharply.
Jackie seemed surprised. “Why would he?”
“Because they were looking for information, that’s why.”
“But sure that wasn’t serious.” Jackie looked at Clodagh for reassurance. “The guards were just keeping themselves right. Sure they knew she killed herself, didn’t they?”
“Jackie’s right,” Clodagh said. “What would be the point of Damian telling anybody? That was weeks before she died. Anyway, they know what happened to her – she was unbalanced.”
I could feel Maeve willing me to keep quiet so I bit my tongue.
“I didn’t much like him going out there, anyway.” Jackie’s lips were pursed.
There was a limit to my self-control. “What do you mean by that?”
“Single woman like her … things were said about her.”
My patience snapped. “Jesus Christ, Jackie, your Damian’s not exactly George Clooney, for God’s sake. I’m sure she could have resisted him.”
Jackie glared at me as Clodagh said self-righteously, “This is a family area. The French have a different way of doing things. It’s not our way.”
Maeve walked me back to the office.
“God, Ben, what’s wrong with you? You’re chewing the head off everybody at the moment.”
“Ah, that Jackie made me see red. Does she really think someone like Marguerite would have been interested in her husband?”
Maeve grinned. “You know the way it is – single women are always a threat. Just as well you have that sculptor.”
But I wasn’t in the mood to be humored. “And who on earth is that Clodagh O’Connor woman? I’m sorry, I know you know her.”
“I’m no fan either, to be honest,” Maeve admitted. “They say the softest thing about her is her teeth.”
I laughed despite myself as we turned the corner. Brendan Quinn’s gold Volvo was still parked outside the office. He must have decided to walk up to the hospital, I thought.
Maeve stopped dead in her tracks. She whistled. “That’s some car.”
“I know. Hard to miss, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that. I’ve seen it somewhere recently, I’m sure of it.”
“Where?” I asked.
She thought for a minute. “That’s weird. At Lagg – down by the beach. The night Marguerite died.”