I Saw You (25 page)

Beside the note was a brown padded envelope, and a small plastic CD case. Porter’s name and address were printed in black marker. There was something familiar about the writing. McLoughlin
used his handkerchief again to pick it up. He pulled out a piece of paper. The words ‘We saw you’ were written on it. McLoughlin leaned towards the computer. He touched the keyboard. It
did not respond. He looked for the down button and touched it. The laptop clicked, purred and came to life. A video image was frozen on the screen. A group of people around a bright fire. He
clicked on the arrow and it began to play. He held his breath as he watched. Then, using his handkerchief again, he stroked the touchpad, clicking on the eject-disk symbol. With a mechanical whirr
the disk slid from the slot at the side of the computer. He picked it up and slipped it into the envelope. Then he hurried back to the door. He opened it slowly, tiptoed down the stairs and heard a
familiar voice. He peered over the banisters and saw Johnny Harris bending over the body. McLoughlin slipped quietly into Gwen Simpson’s office. He moved through the waiting room.

‘Hi, Dr Simpson, are you there?’ he called. He knocked on the door and pushed it open. She was sitting at her desk, her face milk white. She looked shocked. And worn out.

‘Mr McLoughlin, what are you doing here?’ Her voice was shaky.

‘I heard what happened to Mark. I got a call from a friend.’ He waved towards the stairs. ‘I thought you might need a hand. I thought I’d see if there was anything I
could do.’

Her mouth trembled into a smile. ‘Thanks. It’s pretty awful, really. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Did you see what happened?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I was here.’ She put her hands over her face. Her shoulders were shaking.

He moved towards her. He laid a hand on the small of her back. He could feel the bones of her spine through her blouse. ‘It’s OK,’ he said.

‘It’s not OK.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘I feel terrible. I should be doing something. But I can’t think what.’ She raised her face. Tears were spilling from
her eyes.

‘There’s nothing you can do. That’s the hardest thing to bear. There’s nothing you can do.’ He took her hands. They were chilled. They made him feel cold too.
‘You stay there, I’ll make some tea.’ He set off towards the waiting room. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ He closed the door behind him.

The images wouldn’t leave him. Even when he closed his eyes he could still see them. The group of people around the fire. The light flickering over their faces. And the
couple on the ground. Their skin turned to gold. Bright and shiny and beautiful. But the cry that came from the open mouth. ‘No, no, no.’ The repeated cry. Until he could bear it no
more.

It had been after dawn when he got home. He had gone to make tea for Gwen Simpson and had been about to play the disk on the receptionist’s computer when Pat Hickey had
walked into the waiting room. Hickey jerked his head in the direction of Gwen Simpson’s office. ‘She’s in there, is she?’ He pulled his notebook from his pocket.

‘Yeah.’ McLoughlin stepped back from the desk. He walked ahead of Hickey and opened the door. ‘Gwen,’ his voice was soft, ‘this is Sergeant Pat Hickey. He wants to
ask you a few questions. Would you like me to stay?’

She was lying on the couch. She had kicked off her shoes. She looked small and defenceless. She sat up slowly. Her eyes were red and puffy. ‘Yes, that would be good – if that’s
OK with you?’ she asked Hickey.

He nodded. ‘Sure no problem. Now.’ He pulled one of the upright chairs towards her and sat down heavily. McLoughlin closed the door and leaned against it. ‘Tell me what
happened tonight.’

Her voice assumed its usual calm clarity. She had gone home at six, but had come back at about nine thirty. She was writing a paper for an international conference on the long-term effects of
child abuse. It was easier to work in her office, she said. It was always very quiet here at night. And she had her notes to hand. She didn’t think there was anyone else in the building,
certainly none of the other tenants. At about midnight she heard the front door slam. She went out on to the landing and saw Mark Porter in the hall. He came up the stairs towards her and they had
a bit of chat as he took off his motorbike helmet.

‘How did he seem?’ Hickey lifted his head from his notebook.

She made a little face. ‘The way he always seemed. He was a funny mixture of shyness and arrogance. He was always very conscious of his height. Especially, I think, around
women.’

‘And tonight when you saw him, how was he in particular?’

‘In particular he seemed fine. He said he’d been visiting his friends in Kildare. The people with the stud farm.’

‘And who are they? Do you know?’

Sophie Fitzgerald, McLoughlin thought. The gorgeous blonde.

Gwen shook her head. ‘Not the name, but he’s quite close to them, often goes out there at the weekend.’ She paused. ‘He said if I felt like having a drink he’d be
up for a while. But I told him I still had a lot to do on my paper. He asked me what it was about, and when I told him he got agitated, almost angry.’

‘Oh?’ Hickey raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes. He said he thought all that stuff was hugely exaggerated.’

‘Oh?’ Again the raised eyebrows.

‘Anyway, that was it. I went back to my desk. He went upstairs. I didn’t hear anything else until . . .’ her face was stricken ‘. . . until I heard . . .’ She
stopped.

‘Nothing else? You didn’t hear anyone come into the building? No doors opening or closing? Phones ringing? Anything?’ Hickey’s voice was gentle but his questions were
direct.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

McLoughlin thought of the disk he had taken from Porter’s flat. It was in the computer in the waiting room. The envelope was pushing through his jacket pocket. He knew he had committed a
crime. Removing evidence. He should make an excuse, go back upstairs and return it. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what was on it.

Hickey stood up. ‘If you wouldn’t mind staying for a bit longer? The pathologist is examining the body and we don’t want too many people tramping up and down. We’ll let
you go home as soon as we can. I’m sure Michael will keep you company.’ He winked at McLoughlin. ‘Won’t you, Michael?’

‘Sure thing.’ McLoughlin smiled. ‘If that’s OK with you, Gwen. I’ll get that tea for you now. Hot and sweet, just what the doctor ordered. Why don’t you lie
back there again? Take it easy.’ He opened the door and Hickey left. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ McLoughlin said.

‘Thanks. You’re being very kind.’

He followed Hickey out of Gwen’s office and waited, listening to the other man’s footsteps on the stone stairs. Then he shut the door firmly and went into the receptionist’s
little alcove. He found the kettle, a box of teabags and a couple of mugs. He plugged in the kettle, then sat behind the desk. He touched the computer keyboard, clicked on the DVD icon. And
waited.

It was dark. It was night. There was a fire. The flames were shooting up, flickering, showers of sparks. People were standing in a semicircle. Their faces were glowing. Their mouths were open.
Then the camera moved. Towards the ground by the fire. Two people were lying there. He could see the man’s back. It was broad and muscular. He was on top of a woman. Her face was very white.
McLoughlin recognized her from the photographs. It was Marina. Her arms were up behind her head. The man had his hands on her breasts. His head was bent to her neck. Her eyes were open, staring up.
The camera jerked away. Towards Dominic de Paor. He was staring fixedly at the couple. And now the man was standing. It was Mark Porter. The camera zoomed in on his penis. It was soft, flaccid,
small, hanging like a fat worm in his pubic hair. The camera moved to his face. He pointed to the woman. She was sitting up now. She looked dazed, only half awake. She turned her head and vomited.
No one helped her. No one did anything. The camera moved back to Porter. His hands were over his eyes and his shoulders were shaking as he sobbed and sobbed. The screen went black.

The kettle was whistling. McLoughlin switched it off. He pulled open the drawers in the desk one by one. He found a box of CDs. He slid one into the computer and pressed the icon for burn. He
stood up and poured boiling water into the mugs. He stirred the teabags around, then fished them out with a teaspoon and dropped them into the bin. There was a pint carton of milk in the little
fridge, and on the shelf above, a half-bottle of brandy. He put them all on the desk and sat down at the computer again. He clicked on the disk icon and both slid out. He put the original back into
its box in the envelope and the copy into another envelope in his pocket. Then he went to the door. He looked on to the landing. He could hear the murmur of voices below. He tiptoed out and moved
quickly and quietly towards Porter’s flat. He ducked beneath the crime-scene tape and opened the door. The room was as he had left it. He wiped the disk with his handkerchief and carefully
slotted it into Porter’s laptop and put the envelope back on the desk. Then he hurried out. He slunk down against the curving wall and slipped back into Gwen Simpson’s waiting room. He
picked up the mugs of tea, the carton of milk and the bottle of brandy. His chest was heaving and he could feel sweat on his forehead.

‘Gwen, here, have this now.’ He pushed open the door. She was sitting at her desk, a pen in her hand. She looked at him and for a moment it was as if she didn’t know who he
was. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ he asked. ‘You should be lying down.’

‘What?’ She seemed puzzled. ‘Oh, tea, of course. How kind of you. Don’t put the hot mugs on the wood. Here.’ She pushed a pile of papers towards him.

‘What are you doing?’ he repeated. He held up the milk and the bottle and gestured to them. He noticed that his hands were shaking. She pointed at the brandy. He unscrewed the cap
and poured a good measure into both mugs, then passed one across the desk. She sipped it slowly. ‘Thanks. That tastes good.’ She sipped again. ‘I’m making a few notes about
Mark.’

Mark Porter, naked, vulnerable, exposed, humiliated.

‘Oh?’ He tried to look noncommittal.

‘Yes, I don’t know how much you know about him but he tried to kill himself when he was a teenager.’

McLoughlin nodded. ‘I did hear that.’

‘And the circumstances were very similar. Again he used the banister on the top landing. At his boarding-school.’

His tea was bitter. Not improved by the brandy. He could feel it burning as it slipped down his oesophagus. ‘Yes, I know. The consequence of bullying, the poor guy.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that was the reason. I know that’s what everyone said, but Mark had other demons to fight. He had been damaged long before
then.’

‘Oh?’ McLoughlin didn’t feel good. He wanted to get out into the fresh air. ‘His disability must have made his life hard. It’s never easy being
different.’

‘It was more than that. And a lot worse, although he tried to play it down. He would never accept any form of weakness.’ She fiddled with her pen. ‘Mark wasn’t just
bullied. He was also abused at school.’

‘At the Lodge? By a teacher?’ He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

‘Yes, at the Lodge, but it wasn’t one of the school staff. It was a Scout-master. It seems like a cliché now, but unfortunately it’s true. Poor Mark. I don’t think
he was physically able for all the hiking and camping out, but he told me it was what was expected of him so he did it. And some bastard took advantage of his helplessness. Just goes to show that
paedophiles are no respecters of class.’ She looked down at her papers. ‘Although as far as Mark was concerned being abused was part and parcel of that kind of school life. He told me
once,’ and she mimicked him, ‘“Every chap gets buggered. It’s as common as morning prayers and cold showers after games.”’

‘So he didn’t make a complaint? There was no police involvement?’

‘No, that wasn’t the way. Least said, soonest mended.’

‘I see.’ He looked over her head at the vivid colours of the painting on the wall. And saw Mark Porter’s head lying smashed open in the crimson of his blood.

‘Do you, Michael, do you really see? I’m not sure that you do. I’m not sure that any of us who hasn’t experienced it first hand understands how it damages your sense of
self, your self-esteem. Mark was a client of mine for a while. He told me about it, and then, not long afterwards, he stopped coming to see me. He never referred to it again. He was, I’m
afraid, a very damaged person. And I was unable to help him.’

‘Like Marina? She was damaged too.’

Before she could reply the door opened and Hickey came in. ‘You can go home now, Dr Simpson. We’ve finished downstairs. However, this is still a crime scene for the time being. The
building will be closed tomorrow. You might want to make alternative arrangements.’ He sounded apologetic.

‘For how long?’ She tidied her papers and stood up.

‘We’re not sure at the moment. When the pathologist has issued his report on Mr Porter’s death we’ll have a better idea.’ Hickey moved back into the outer office.
‘We’re closing up now so if you could make a move too, Michael?’

McLoughlin followed Gwen Simpson down the stairs. She was carrying a laptop in a bag over her shoulder and a box of books and papers. Mark Porter was no longer a misshapen heap on the floor. A
puddle of congealed blood was all that was left of him. Johnny Harris had propped himself against the wall beside a huge gilt-framed mirror. He looked tired. McLoughlin patted his shoulder.
‘Hey, Johnny, long night?’ he said.

‘Michael. What has you here?’ Harris turned to watch Gwen Simpson as she brushed past.

‘He’s a friend of the lady,’ Hickey hissed.

‘Mm?’ Harris cocked his head to one side.

‘Ssh,’ McLoughlin put a finger to his lips. He hurried outside after Gwen. The square was busy. There were two police cars, and a police motorbike parked up on the footpath. An
ambulance stood with its doors open. A couple of paramedics were pushing a body-bag from a trolley inside it. A small crowd of onlookers was hanging around, and among them McLoughlin noticed a
couple of journalists he knew.