bedroom with five books about Multiple Sclerosis under the bed.'
'Just because she had a few books about it doesn't mean she had the disease,' Libby said. 'I mean she's a doctor and they read medical books all the time, I'd imagine.'
'True,' he said, 'I never saw Pamela suffering any of these symptoms. In fact, she was always perfectly healthy.'
'What do these books say about the symptoms?' she asked.
'Wait, I have them here.' Conor went over to his bookshelf, which stood in the corner of the room. He picked out a thick textbook and opened it. He flicked through it, finally resting on one page.
'Cramps, numbness, fatigue, tremors, difficulty with balance and walking,' he read. 'Bladder and bowel incontinence, and muscle paralysis. There can be mood swings, anxiety, depression and memory loss. A patient can present with one or several of these symptoms.'
'Pretty depressing stuff,' Dawn said.
'Is there any other reason why Pamela might be so preoccupied with MS, apart from having it herself?' Libby asked, frowning.
'Her uncle died a few months ago from MS, she told me,' said Conor. 'Pamela became very upset afterwards, she often went to stay with this man and his wife in the summer when she was a teenager, she told me. He was only fifty when he died, and he left four young children.'
Libby went back to Pamela's apartment above the newsagent shop. She used Conor's spare key and entered the front door on the ground floor. She climbed a narrow staircase and switched on a light. She found she was in the sitting room. The air smelt musty. She glanced around the room. She walked into the bedroom, over to the window, and then opened the curtains.
She glanced through a pile of Pamela's papers in her bedroom desk drawers, hoping to find correspondence with a doctor, but she found nothing but old bills and photos. She searched the wardrobes in all the rooms, underneath the stairs, and in all the kitchen cupboards, for the typewriter that the young doctor had used, but found none.
***
On Friday Libby drove to Glengariff to meet Pamela's mother. The house was a new bungalow, painted in white with well-tended small shrubs and a huge lawn. A white poodle came out to greet her, followed by a tall elegant white-haired woman dressed in green trousers, a heavy blue jumper and Wellington boots.
'You look like you could do with a good cup of tea,' the woman said. Her cheekbones were high and her skin tanned. Her hazel eyes had fine lines at the corners.
'You've said it,' Libby agreed, with a smile.
They walked into the kitchen. Libby sat while the sun shone into the huge bay window. Mrs Kelly took off her muddy green gloves and switched on the kettle.
'Mrs Kelly, I'd like to talk to you about Pamela's death. I'm trying to understand why she died. I realise you're in mourning after this terrible loss.'
'The Garda just told me today she died from drowning,' said the older woman, in a flat voice. 'I can only think the tide swept her away.’
'So you think...?' asked Libby.
'I've stopped thinking. What on earth's the good of churning things over and over again in your mind for the umpteenth time?'
'Did Pamela ever go walking on the beach?'
'Yes, sometimes. Her apartment is just across the road from there.'
Libby nodded. 'I visited her at home once, to talk to her about Dr Lynch's death.'
'She often took a short walk there with me at the weekend,' said Mrs Kelly. 'We walked up as far as the harbour and back. Pamela never took long walks since she began that job in the hospital. She just never had the energy after all the work she had to do.' Mrs Kelly turned her back, searched through her cupboards and brought out a packet of biscuits. She placed some on a plate on the table. 'Sometimes Pamela worked nights on top of her normal day's work.'
'So she was too exhausted to go walking,' said Libby.
'That's right.' Mrs Kelly took out a packet of cigarettes. 'Do you mind if I smoke?'
'No, go ahead,' she said.
'I gave them up
'Just because she had a few books about it doesn't mean she had the disease,' Libby said. 'I mean she's a doctor and they read medical books all the time, I'd imagine.'
'True,' he said, 'I never saw Pamela suffering any of these symptoms. In fact, she was always perfectly healthy.'
'What do these books say about the symptoms?' she asked.
'Wait, I have them here.' Conor went over to his bookshelf, which stood in the corner of the room. He picked out a thick textbook and opened it. He flicked through it, finally resting on one page.
'Cramps, numbness, fatigue, tremors, difficulty with balance and walking,' he read. 'Bladder and bowel incontinence, and muscle paralysis. There can be mood swings, anxiety, depression and memory loss. A patient can present with one or several of these symptoms.'
'Pretty depressing stuff,' Dawn said.
'Is there any other reason why Pamela might be so preoccupied with MS, apart from having it herself?' Libby asked, frowning.
'Her uncle died a few months ago from MS, she told me,' said Conor. 'Pamela became very upset afterwards, she often went to stay with this man and his wife in the summer when she was a teenager, she told me. He was only fifty when he died, and he left four young children.'
Libby went back to Pamela's apartment above the newsagent shop. She used Conor's spare key and entered the front door on the ground floor. She climbed a narrow staircase and switched on a light. She found she was in the sitting room. The air smelt musty. She glanced around the room. She walked into the bedroom, over to the window, and then opened the curtains.
She glanced through a pile of Pamela's papers in her bedroom desk drawers, hoping to find correspondence with a doctor, but she found nothing but old bills and photos. She searched the wardrobes in all the rooms, underneath the stairs, and in all the kitchen cupboards, for the typewriter that the young doctor had used, but found none.
***
On Friday Libby drove to Glengariff to meet Pamela's mother. The house was a new bungalow, painted in white with well-tended small shrubs and a huge lawn. A white poodle came out to greet her, followed by a tall elegant white-haired woman dressed in green trousers, a heavy blue jumper and Wellington boots.
'You look like you could do with a good cup of tea,' the woman said. Her cheekbones were high and her skin tanned. Her hazel eyes had fine lines at the corners.
'You've said it,' Libby agreed, with a smile.
They walked into the kitchen. Libby sat while the sun shone into the huge bay window. Mrs Kelly took off her muddy green gloves and switched on the kettle.
'Mrs Kelly, I'd like to talk to you about Pamela's death. I'm trying to understand why she died. I realise you're in mourning after this terrible loss.'
'The Garda just told me today she died from drowning,' said the older woman, in a flat voice. 'I can only think the tide swept her away.’
'So you think...?' asked Libby.
'I've stopped thinking. What on earth's the good of churning things over and over again in your mind for the umpteenth time?'
'Did Pamela ever go walking on the beach?'
'Yes, sometimes. Her apartment is just across the road from there.'
Libby nodded. 'I visited her at home once, to talk to her about Dr Lynch's death.'
'She often took a short walk there with me at the weekend,' said Mrs Kelly. 'We walked up as far as the harbour and back. Pamela never took long walks since she began that job in the hospital. She just never had the energy after all the work she had to do.' Mrs Kelly turned her back, searched through her cupboards and brought out a packet of biscuits. She placed some on a plate on the table. 'Sometimes Pamela worked nights on top of her normal day's work.'
'So she was too exhausted to go walking,' said Libby.
'That's right.' Mrs Kelly took out a packet of cigarettes. 'Do you mind if I smoke?'
'No, go ahead,' she said.
'I gave them up
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