they have an explanation. I've to continue writing my report.' He said goodbye and turned his back to her.
Chapter 17
Libby was convinced Conor had concealed something about the circumstances leading to Pamela's death. She arranged to meet Conor at home with the intention of forcing some truthful answers from him.
He brought her into his house and she sat on his sofa in the living room. He stood facing her, with a cigarette in his hand. He was pale and his expression was remote.
'Pamela won't be following you anymore,' Libby said. 'So you can come out of hiding now.'
He winced and then sighed. 'I wasn't hiding. I've lost my best friend. I was going to ask Pamela to marry me.'
Libby stared at him with disbelief. A likely story, she thought. 'Pamela won't be marrying anyone now.'
Conor flinched. 'Brendan rang me yesterday and gave me the awful news.' Conor covered his face with his hands and then stood up abruptly. 'I'm such a fool. Everything's turned out wrong.' He paced up and down, taking deep puffs of his cigarette. 'I'm so confused now; I'm all mixed up. It's all such a mess.' He stubbed his cigarette viciously on a metal ashtray.
'When did you last see Pamela alive?' Libby asked him, with a critical expression.
Conor shifted uneasily in the chair, refusing to meet her eye. 'On the night of the party, over a week ago. She stayed on after everyone else went home. I went down to Galway after that. You met me there, remember?'
Libby's voice grew hard. 'Did you kill Pamela?'
'No. Never. She killed herself. She must have felt so let down, so alone. I was so terrible to her, leaving her in her hour of need. That's why she killed herself. I never thought in a million years she'd jump in the sea, but...' His voice trailed off.
'But what?'
'She did write a note.' Conor exhaled audibly.
'What?' Libby said, jerking her head towards him. A suicide note? Why was he only mentioning this now?
'I drove back to Ballyhasset last Monday, the day after I met you in Galway. I rang Pamela late that evening, but there was no answer. I went over to her house. I had a key, so I let myself in. I found the note on the coffee table. I read it and kept it.' He sighed. 'I intended to give it back to her.'
'But you never got a chance.' Is this the truth? Libby wondered. So Pamela was dead by the time Conor found the note.
'I never thought she'd go ahead and kill herself,' Conor said, with a groan.
A note doesn't mean she did, Libby thought. 'Do you have this note with you?' she asked.
'Yeah, I have a copy here. The police have the original.' He fetched the note from his pocket and handed it over. The crumpled piece of paper was typed and signed. The signature Libby could not decipher.
She read the note aloud,
'Dear Conor,
When you find this, I'll be dead. I visited my GP with tiredness and pain in my muscles a month ago. He referred me to a neurologist, and to cut a long story short, I have Multiple Sclerosis.
I'm a coward, I can't face life with this illness, and I can't bear the pain. This is a painless way out, with a few sedatives and a watery death. This is better for me and for all of you.
You told me you didn't want this baby. I'm so disappointed with you, now. I thought we would always be together.
I'm so sorry,
Pamela.'
'Are you sure this is her signature?' Libby asked, with a frown. 'Why didn't she handwrite the whole lot?'
Conor examined the signature. 'I can just about make out the word Pamela,' he said. 'Pamela never had good handwriting. It seems like her scrawl, all right, from what I remember.'
'Did she often type things?'
'No, I didn't even know she could type.'
'Did she ever miss work?' Libby asked.
'No.' He stared at Libby in confusion. 'I even searched Pamela's house for books on this disease yesterday.'
'Did you find any?'
'Yes, I found a spare
Chapter 17
Libby was convinced Conor had concealed something about the circumstances leading to Pamela's death. She arranged to meet Conor at home with the intention of forcing some truthful answers from him.
He brought her into his house and she sat on his sofa in the living room. He stood facing her, with a cigarette in his hand. He was pale and his expression was remote.
'Pamela won't be following you anymore,' Libby said. 'So you can come out of hiding now.'
He winced and then sighed. 'I wasn't hiding. I've lost my best friend. I was going to ask Pamela to marry me.'
Libby stared at him with disbelief. A likely story, she thought. 'Pamela won't be marrying anyone now.'
Conor flinched. 'Brendan rang me yesterday and gave me the awful news.' Conor covered his face with his hands and then stood up abruptly. 'I'm such a fool. Everything's turned out wrong.' He paced up and down, taking deep puffs of his cigarette. 'I'm so confused now; I'm all mixed up. It's all such a mess.' He stubbed his cigarette viciously on a metal ashtray.
'When did you last see Pamela alive?' Libby asked him, with a critical expression.
Conor shifted uneasily in the chair, refusing to meet her eye. 'On the night of the party, over a week ago. She stayed on after everyone else went home. I went down to Galway after that. You met me there, remember?'
Libby's voice grew hard. 'Did you kill Pamela?'
'No. Never. She killed herself. She must have felt so let down, so alone. I was so terrible to her, leaving her in her hour of need. That's why she killed herself. I never thought in a million years she'd jump in the sea, but...' His voice trailed off.
'But what?'
'She did write a note.' Conor exhaled audibly.
'What?' Libby said, jerking her head towards him. A suicide note? Why was he only mentioning this now?
'I drove back to Ballyhasset last Monday, the day after I met you in Galway. I rang Pamela late that evening, but there was no answer. I went over to her house. I had a key, so I let myself in. I found the note on the coffee table. I read it and kept it.' He sighed. 'I intended to give it back to her.'
'But you never got a chance.' Is this the truth? Libby wondered. So Pamela was dead by the time Conor found the note.
'I never thought she'd go ahead and kill herself,' Conor said, with a groan.
A note doesn't mean she did, Libby thought. 'Do you have this note with you?' she asked.
'Yeah, I have a copy here. The police have the original.' He fetched the note from his pocket and handed it over. The crumpled piece of paper was typed and signed. The signature Libby could not decipher.
She read the note aloud,
'Dear Conor,
When you find this, I'll be dead. I visited my GP with tiredness and pain in my muscles a month ago. He referred me to a neurologist, and to cut a long story short, I have Multiple Sclerosis.
I'm a coward, I can't face life with this illness, and I can't bear the pain. This is a painless way out, with a few sedatives and a watery death. This is better for me and for all of you.
You told me you didn't want this baby. I'm so disappointed with you, now. I thought we would always be together.
I'm so sorry,
Pamela.'
'Are you sure this is her signature?' Libby asked, with a frown. 'Why didn't she handwrite the whole lot?'
Conor examined the signature. 'I can just about make out the word Pamela,' he said. 'Pamela never had good handwriting. It seems like her scrawl, all right, from what I remember.'
'Did she often type things?'
'No, I didn't even know she could type.'
'Did she ever miss work?' Libby asked.
'No.' He stared at Libby in confusion. 'I even searched Pamela's house for books on this disease yesterday.'
'Did you find any?'
'Yes, I found a spare
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