ON THE DRIVE back up to Glendara I couldn’t get Marguerite’s daughter out of my head. She had been brought up to think that her mother had left her when she was a baby, that the woman had chosen her vices over her own child. How Adeline must have despised her. But yet she had traveled to Ireland to attend her mother’s funeral. I wondered if it would have been possible for her to do that if her father had still been alive.
Adeline must barely have remembered her mother, if at all. And in Inishowen where Marguerite had lived, her memory was fading fast, barely two weeks after her death. No one should be forgotten so quickly. Living on through our descendants, leaving our genetic imprint on the generations to come, is something that we value. But we should be allowed a genetic and an emotional connection. Marguerite had lost out on the emotional connection with her daughter through no fault of her own.
Her daughter had suffered that same loss, and her loss was continuing. I thought about all of those returned, unopened letters. Who had returned them, I wondered. Was it Adeline herself, or was it someone else? If the latter, Adeline may never have known that her mother was trying to contact her, never have known that her mother had been thinking about her right up until the day that she died. And if the guards had given Adeline that last letter Molloy had mentioned, then all she would have seen was a goodbye.
Suddenly, I knew with absolute clarity that it was up to me to try and fix that. If I had drafted Marguerite’s will on the spot as she had wanted, then Adeline would have known that her mother loved her. But I hadn’t, and no matter how much I tortured myself with professional guilt, I couldn’t change that now. But what I could do was tell her. And more importantly, I could ensure she received her mother’s letters. What was to stop me from delivering them to her myself?
I arrived back at the office at twenty past two and saw from the appointments diary that I had a meeting with the two developers at half past two to sign the contract for the land in Malin Head. So I had ten minutes. I switched on my computer.
Firstly, I checked the location of the Damascans’ headquarters. It was about eighty kilometers inland just north of the city of Bergen. A search showed that although there was an airport in Bergen, it was difficult to get a direct flight. It looked as if I might have to fly to Oslo. I had just opened the Aer Lingus website to check flights when Leah buzzed. I had run out of time.
“Your half two appointment is here.”
“Okay. Send them up.”
I was on my guard the second Dolan and Gallagher walked into the room. Something about their expressions made me uneasy.
There was a curt nod from Dolan, but as usual, it was Gallagher who spoke. “Afternoon, Miss O’Keeffe.”
“Afternoon, gentlemen. Have a seat.” I directed them to the two chairs on the other side of the desk. “I’ve gone through the contracts and the title documents and it all seems fine. I’ll just take you through the special conditions.”
I handed them a copy and directed them to the appropriate section. “You’ll see I’ve put in the special condition in relation to the planning permission that you wanted. The purchase of the land is subject to you obtaining planning permission for a hotel on the site within six months. That’s what you instructed, isn’t it?”
The two men nodded.
“That seems very fast for a development of this kind. Are you sure you will get it within that time?”
Gallagher answered. “We are.”
I didn’t mention the piece I had read in the newspaper about the re-zoning. The planning application was none of my concern; I was happy to leave that to their architect.
Instead, I went through the title documents and maps and the remaining terms and conditions. Gallagher told me that copy maps had already been sent out and checked by their architect.
“So what happens next?” he said.
“Well, once you sign the contract now and pay your deposit, I’ll return the contracts to the seller’s solicitor for the seller to sign. Once he signs we have a binding contract.”
Gallagher frowned. “You mean until he signs, he doesn’t have to sell us the land?”
“Correct. But you’re still waiting for your planning permission. He has plenty of time.”
Gallagher pulled himself up to his full height in the seat. “We will have our planning permission very soon, Miss O’Keeffe. Do not rely on that to delay things.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. His voice had acquired an edge I didn’t like.
“If a situation arises where there is valuable planning permission attaching to this land and we have no contract in place,” he went on, “we will hold you entirely responsible.”
“Mr. Gallagher, the law says that a contract for sale is only binding on the seller once he signs it. When he signs is entirely up to him. I can put pressure on his solicitor, but ultimately it is something over which I have absolutely no control.”
Gallagher glared at me. “That’s not good enough. We instructed you to act for us in this transaction. We did not expect it to take this long.”
I struggled to keep my temper in check. “The contract was drafted by the seller’s solicitor, not by me. That is standard practice. As soon as I received it, I read the title. You are now signing and it will go back to the seller for him to sign. Your conveyance is proceeding at a perfectly normal pace. If anything, it is proceeding rather rapidly.”
“The procedure does not concern us. That is your job, Miss O’Keeffe. We expect you to do it.”
Gallagher pulled the two copies of the contract over to his side of the desk, scrawled his signature on both, watched Dolan do the same, and shoved them back towards me. I witnessed both and immediately the two men got up to leave.
“We’ll be in touch,” Gallagher said.
I felt slightly shaken after the two men left the office. When I heard the front door shut and was sure they had left the building, I went downstairs.
“Delightful, aren’t they?” Leah said after I told her what had happened. “That’s what I had to put up with last week when they were in America waiting for the contracts to arrive.”
“I’m sorry about that. I hadn’t realized they were so bad.”
“Unpleasant men.”
“I think they might actually have been threatening me.”
“They were the same with me.”
I handed her the file. “If I have one more session with them like that, I’ll tell them to go elsewhere, big deal or not. In the meantime, I suppose you’d better get the contracts back.”
A soupy fog enveloped the town as I drove through the square and out onto the Malin road that evening. My head was splitting and I was tired and worried. My lousy encounter with Dolan and Gallagher had turned out to be the high point of the afternoon and it was all downhill after that. I had to concede that some of it was my own fault; I hadn’t been giving as much attention to the practice lately as I should have been.
Suddenly the prospect of going home to an empty house wasn’t as appealing as it had been the night before. It crossed my mind that it would be good to have someone to talk to – not about work, I was always limited in what I could discuss about work – just someone to turn to after a lousy day. The person I really wanted to see was Molloy. That door had closed, I had to accept that. But I missed him. Apart from the pang I felt when I allowed him into my thoughts, I was beginning to realize how much I had come to value his opinion, and how much a part of my life he had become.
I found myself driving through Malin past my house and out towards Malin Head in the direction of Simon’s cottage. There was no fog here. The sun was beginning to set and the sea was that wonderful purple and orange color I loved. The tide was on its way out and a long golden sandbar in the center of the bay was visible from the road. It always amazes me how a sandbar can appear within fifteen minutes and disappear just as quickly. I felt my spirits lift. Simon was right. It was the perfect place for an artist to live.
I drove past the entrance to Lagg, turned left up the hill past Marguerite’s old cottage, and pulled in at Simon’s house. There was no car outside, but I remembered what he had said about avoiding Marguerite by parking at the back. I rang the doorbell at the front, but there was no answer. He must be working, I thought. If he was in his studio at the back, he probably couldn’t hear the front door. I went around to the back of the house. Sure enough, his car was there.
After a brief hesitation I knocked on the door of his studio and was rewarded with the sound of barking followed by scratching at the inside of the door.
Suddenly the door was pulled open with some force and standing there with an angry scowl on his face, his hair matted with clay and a Great Dane leaning against his thigh was Simon. He didn’t speak, just glared at me as if he didn’t even recognize me.
“Hello,” I said. “I just thought I’d …”
Before I could finish my sentence, he slammed the door in my face. Then I heard a key turn in the lock. Shaken, I stood on the doorstep while I pulled myself together, and after a few seconds, I left.
When I got back into the car, I dialed the number of the veterinary clinic. Maeve answered the phone above another din of barking dog.
“You on call tonight?” I asked.
“No, why?”
“Fancy a drink later?”
“Absolutely.”
Back at my cottage, I took a paracetemol, made some tea, and opened my laptop. I tried my best to ignore the sculpture sitting on the dresser. What I really wanted to do was to dump it in the bin.
After a search, I discovered that yes, the closest city to the cult’s headquarters was the port city of Bergen, known as the “Capital of the Fjords.” But neither Aer Lingus nor Ryanair flew there at this time of year; Wednesday was the first of October. It looked as if I’d have to fly to Oslo and drive, or take a train up. On the plus side, the flight to Oslo was only an hour and a half so I would be able to go for the weekend. Before I could change my mind, I booked myself on to a flight to Oslo for Thursday night and a return flight for the Saturday. Leah would just have to postpone my Friday appointments until Monday. Had Marguerite made the same journey, I wondered.
An hour later, I was sitting with Maeve in a pub on the way out of Glendara that we rarely visited, being grilled mercilessly about the weekend. There was a band playing in the Oak so we had decided to give it a wide berth.
“Hey, this isn’t bad. We should come in here more often.” Maeve curled her feet up underneath her as she settled herself on the faded velvet bench. “It’s nice to get a seat.”
I laughed. “We’re getting old.”
“Back to your weekend. I need more information. I’m married – I have to get my excitement from somewhere,” she persisted.
“He’s very nice.”
“Nice?”
“Very charming, engaging, witty. Good company. That do you?”
“Not really.”
“I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“Saving myself,” I said piously as Maeve spluttered out her drink.
“I had David in with me on Friday,” she said as she wiped her jeans with a napkin.
“I know. I saw him coming out of the clinic. I had another strange conversation with him. What do you think of him?”
“Quiet. I never really get a whole lot out of him. Maybe he’s a bit overshadowed by his father.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I don’t think that’s going to go anywhere if tonight’s experience is anything to go by.”
I related my earlier altercation with Simon, but Maeve didn’t attach too much weight to it; she put it down to artistic temperament.
Suddenly, she gave me a nudge and nodded in the direction of the bar. “Jesus, look at Aidan Doherty. Talk about worse for wear.”
I looked up. A group of men in suits were standing at the bar. I hadn’t noticed them earlier, they must have just come in. They looked like the fall-out from a political drinking session – a gaggle of party cronies all slapping each other on the back and making asses of themselves. The drunkest of the lot was Aidan Doherty. He was unshaven, his tie was askew, and he was leaning on the bar for support; the personification of the clichéd Irish drunk. But I saw his face when he thought no one was looking, when one of his colleagues moved to one side, and he looked utterly desolate.
“Looks a bit pathetic, doesn’t he?” Maeve said.
We watched silently as he stumbled his way to the toilets, touching the wall for balance. It felt voyeuristic to be watching him in such a state.
Maeve shuddered, already half out of her seat. “Same again?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
While Maeve made her way up to the bar, I grabbed my opportunity and headed down the back of the pub towards the toilets. I couldn’t have choreographed it better. Aidan was just coming out the door of the gents as I approached. I put myself directly in his path and greeted him with a big, friendly smile.
“Hello, Aidan. How are you?”
He looked at me with glazed red eyes and no hint of recognition.
“It’s Ben. Benedicta O’Keeffe.”
Still nothing. He reached out his hand to steady himself against the wall. He looked confused.
“The solicitor,” I prompted.
This time it registered. Aidan opened his eyes wide with the slow, exaggerated movement of the very drunk.
I checked to make sure there was no one within earshot. “Did you get around to going to the guards about what we were talking about?”
“It’s all fine,” he slurred. “Everything’s fine.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ve taken care of everything. I always take care of things.” He looked down at his shoes.
“How have you taken care of things?”
There was no response, he just kept staring at the ground.
“Aidan?”
Suddenly, he leaned forward as if mesmerised by the pattern on the carpet. Afraid he would fall, I pushed his shoulder back against the wall, and he seemed to regain his balance.
I tried again, my tone lower. “Who was blackmailing you, Aidan? Was it about Marguerite?”
He looked up at the mention of her name. His eyes, completely bloodshot, began to water. Oh, God, I thought, he’s going to cry. Please don’t let him cry. I realized I needed to pull back. I looked around for help to get him back up to the bar.
When I turned, his eyes were closed as if in pain.
“How can love destroy your life? Just like that. Before I met her …” His voice broke. “It’s my fault she’s gone. It’s all my fault.”
A voice behind me made me jump. “Well, Aidey boy? Havin’ a wee moment?” It was one of the men who had been with him up at the bar. The man nodded at me. “Sorry about this. I think this man needs to go home.”
He linked Aidan arm-in-arm and took him back into the main part of the pub while I went back to my seat. I watched with Maeve as Aidan meekly allowed himself to be led out to a taxi.
“They’re coming from Iggy McDaid’s corp-house, apparently,” Maeve said, pushing a fresh drink towards me. “After some big Council meeting. I must get there myself in the morning. To the corp-house, not the Council.”
“Did Aidan know Iggy McDaid?” I asked. “Or is it just the political show of going to every wake and funeral?”
“Oh, they knew each other surely. Iggy used to be a blacksmith – one of his many jobs. Didn’t you know that?”
I shook my head. “No. I knew Aidan was.”
“Aye, they worked together. At least, Aidan worked. Iggy was usually drunk. Aidan got him out of more than a few scrapes. Offered him a job when no one else would touch him, took him to dry out more times than you could count. Iggy owed him a lot.”