AS I DROVE back to Glendara, I wondered why Quinn was suddenly allowing for the possibility that Marguerite might have committed suicide. Was he covering himself? Was it possible he could have been involved in her death? I only had his word for the fact that he had returned from his holiday the Friday after she died. And without Molloy’s involvement, I had no way of checking. Quinn had good reason not to want his affair with Marguerite getting out – two good reasons, in fact: his career and his marriage. And despite his insistence that he hadn’t seen Marguerite for six weeks before she died and had never been to her cottage, his car had been seen at the beach on the night she died. I trusted Maeve’s powers of observation.
But could I seriously imagine Brendan Quinn – a professional I had known and respected since I had moved to Glendara – murdering someone to protect his career and marriage? It seemed impossible. But desperate people did desperate things, and a week ago, I wouldn’t have imagined him to be capable of sleeping with one of his patients. How little we truly know about each other’s lives.
My mobile rang. It was Leah. “Are you finished in Letterkenny?”
“On the way back now. What’s up?”
“Two things. One, I wanted to remind you about that farmers meeting tomorrow night. The chairman just rang to say that the time has changed from seven o’clock to eight.”
I groaned. Every year I am asked to put together a short talk on legal issues of concern to local farmers and fishermen – issues such as land, inheritance rights, rights of way. The most difficult part of the evening is always the question and answer session afterwards; it is impossible to predict what I will be asked and I dread it.
“Okay. What’s the second thing?”
“Can you see Clodagh O’Connor at ten tomorrow?”
“Really?”
“Yep. She just called in.”
Jesus, I thought. I’ll have the whole pack.
Later that evening I was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, surrounded by contracts and title documents for a sale I had taken on weeks before; one I had been putting off. The title was old, unregistered, and complicated, and required a lot more attention than I was giving it. My mind kept wandering back to Marguerite … which was the very reason I was falling behind in my work in the first place. I had been so distracted during the past couple of weeks that I had begun to find it almost impossible to make even the simplest of professional decisions, the kind of judgement calls a small-town solicitor has to make every day, and work was piling up as a result. I suspected that there were any number of time bombs ticking away in files in the office just waiting to go off if I didn’t defuse them soon.
As far as Marguerite was concerned, I was going around in circles; the more I discovered, the less things seemed to add up. Maybe it was time I admitted to myself that I was failing in what I had set out to do and limit my task to delivering her letters to their rightful owner before I succeeded in losing them, too.
I had just managed to convince Guinness that the cushion I had left for him by the fire was far more comfortable than the map he insisted on sitting on, when a knock at the back door gave me a jolt.
Molloy stood on the doorstep, his brow furrowed with concern. “Have you a minute?”
“Sure. Come in.”
Maeve always says that my house is designed for little people, of whom Molloy is not one. He stooped to get through the low back door and followed me through the hallway into the sitting room where I cleared a space for him on the couch. This included removing Guinness, who had returned to his chosen spot on the map as soon as my back was turned but who leaped on to Molloy’s knee as soon as he sat down.
“Coffee?” I offered.
“Please.”
I went back into the kitchen. To my annoyance, my hand shook a little as I filled the kettle. Molloy’s presence unnerved me. I had an almost irresistible temptation to tell him everything that had been happening; all that I had discovered about Marguerite, Simon, the phone calls, Luke. But I knew I couldn’t. Molloy had made his feelings clear on a number of issues, and I had to respect them. I had to learn not to rely on him any more.
He looked up when I returned. “So how have you been?”
There was something about the way he said it that made it sound as if it wasn’t a general inquiry.
“Fine,” I said, avoiding his eye by throwing some extra fuel on the fire – unnecessarily, I realized, since Molloy had already done it while I was in the kitchen. “Why?”
“We’re trying to trace the silver car that ran you off the road, but it doesn’t help that we don’t have a numberplate, or a make.”
“I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t much help. If anything comes back to me, I’ll let you know.”
“It was a pretty strange thing to happen, don’t you think?” He paused. “Seemed almost deliberate.”
I looked up. “You think? I thought maybe the driver was just drunk.”
“You really can’t remember anything else about it?”
“Nothing other than what I’ve already told you. Why?”
“It’s an odd coincidence, what with the face at your window the few days before. Has there been anything else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
I smiled. “You think someone’s after me? An unsatisfied client? I’m not exactly a high-profile criminal lawyer. I have no dangerous clients that I know of.”
“You’re quite sure there’s been nothing else?”
He didn’t believe me, I could see it.
“Just try and be careful, would you? Don’t take any risks. And talk to me if you need to.”
“Of course.” I stood up. “I’d better get that coffee.”
His tone had changed when I walked back into the room. An attempt at levity – not Molloy’s strong point. “So I hear you were away for the weekend?”
I stopped in my tracks, nearly dropping the tray with coffee pot and mugs. “How did you know that?” My voice sounded odd.
“McFadden saw you boarding the ferry at Greencastle.”
“It was just for the night.” Why the hell did I feel the need to clarify that? I thought. What difference did it make?
“Right.” Molloy tickled the cat’s chin and was rewarded with a loud purr.
For a minute neither of us said anything. I placed the tray on the coffee table, avoiding his gaze again, busying myself pouring coffee and milk.
“Nice time?”
I nodded. “Yes.” Where was this coming from, I wondered. This wasn’t like Molloy. He didn’t do small talk. Was he trying, albeit somewhat clumsily, to see if we could be friends?
“New man, I hear?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t do this. There was no way I could have this kind of relationship with Molloy, where we would discuss each other’s love lives like old mates.
“The small-town information-superhighway never fails, does it?”
He smiled, a stiff kind of a smile. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said, sharper than I had intended.
He didn’t respond.
“Sorry,” I said.
He gazed into the fire, his brow furrowed. “It’s fine. You’re right, it’s none of my business.”
Five minutes later, he had drained his mug and was on his way to the door. Before he reached it, he seemed to remember something and turned back.
“By the way, those dangerous driving charges will be struck out.”
“Which ones?”
“Oh, right.” I was surprised. “How come?”
He smiled. “Are you complaining?”
“’Course not. Just wondering. You seemed to be pretty gung-ho about it.”
“I can’t say I’m happy about it, but the farmer refused to make a statement, and we can’t proceed without it. There were no other witnesses.”
“Okay. I’ll let him know.” I paused. “Tom …” I said, unsure whether I should continue.
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if I ask you something? Just out of curiosity, nothing else.”
Molloy looked at me cautiously. “Go on.”
“Who was it who told you that Marguerite Etienne used to walk on the beach?”
“Why?”
“Because she was afraid of the sea.”
“Ben, you have to drop this,” Molloy said strongly. “It’s not your concern.”
I looked down. “I know. Forget I asked.”
He sighed. “I’d have to check the file to be sure, but from what I can remember, it was your new man.”
I wasn’t sure whether it was hearing Molloy refer to Simon as my “new man” but suddenly I was lost. “Sorry?”
“It was Simon Howard who told us that Miss Etienne used to walk on the beach.”