I Saw You by Julie Parsons Read Free Book Online

the boot and put the key into the lock. The metal was
warm to the touch. He swung it up and open. He’d gone shopping earlier in the day. Vegetables from that nice little greengrocer’s in Glasthule and cheese from Caviston’s. A soft
goat cheese from somewhere in Cork and a big slab of Bandon cheddar. He’d been tempted to buy some squid. Lucky he hadn’t. It wouldn’t have lasted long in this heat. The
goat’s cheese gave off a pungent smell that verged on nasty. He gathered together the plastic bags and lifted them up. And saw, underneath, the shiny black cover of Sally Spencer’s
album. He sighed and reached forward. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm, then slammed the boot. He turned towards the house. And as he moved a piece of paper drifted towards his feet,
twirling in the still night air, like a feather. He bent to pick it up. And saw a face he remembered. That he had last seen that night in Ballyknockan. Patrick Holland: Mary’s father,
Margaret’s lover. Who had helped her kill Jimmy Fitzsimons. And who, he knew, was now dead. A heart-attack on holiday in Spain. A huge funeral in Dublin. The great and the good gathered to
mourn him. Crowds spilling out of the church, clustering around his black-clad widow to offer sympathy and support. McLoughlin had stood some way off. He had scanned the crowd. He had been sure
Margaret would be there. He couldn’t believe that she would let Holland go to his grave without saying goodbye. And when he didn’t see her at the church he followed the cortège
to the cemetery. Stood far enough away not to intrude, but close enough to see who was there. Thought his heart would stop beating, just for a moment, when a tall, slim woman wearing dark glasses,
with a black shawl flung around her shoulders, got out of a taxi and walked towards the small knot of mourners by the open grave. Then saw Holland’s widow give a little cry of recognition as
they embraced. And the woman took off her glasses and, of course, she was nothing like Margaret. He left then. Slunk away, dodging behind headstones, and trying not to trip on the cracked slabs of
the old paths. And realized that Mary was buried in this place too. It was fitting, he thought. Father and daughter in the same piece of earth.
    He opened the fridge and put away his groceries. And pulled out a bottle of beer. Erdinger, German wheat beer, cloudy to the eye and yeasty to the nose. He flipped off the cap and poured it into
a glass. He sat at the table, and laid the newspaper cutting down. He smoothed it out. It was an account of James de Paor’s funeral. Patrick Holland was one of the chief mourners. He skipped
through the text. Attended the same school, friends at university, called to the Bar in the same year. Some polite read-between-the-lines reference to political differences. And there was a quote:
‘James was one of the best. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I never for a minute doubted his integrity and commitment to his beliefs. His death is a tragedy for all.’
    There were three photographs. One was of Holland helping to carry the coffin from the church. The second was also of Holland, this time comforting Sally. She looked very young and, despite her
obvious grief, very pretty. And the third showed a group of mourners. Marina was immediately recognizable. She had her arm around a younger boy, with the same high cheekbones and a mop of fair
hair. Slightly apart from them was an older boy. A young man, really. He was standing stiffly beside a tall, dark woman. McLoughlin read the caption. Dominic de Paor, Helena de Paor, Marina
Spencer, Tom Spencer. Dominic de Paor was striking. He was tall and well-built with a jutting nose. His tanned face was without expression but his body said it all. He was tense, withdrawn.
    McLoughlin stared at the photographs. Helena de Paor. Must be the first wife. She had the look of one of those Japanese women. Almost like a geisha. Her black hair pulled back