Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (26 page)

T
he producer
from
Elucidate
flew to New York to attend a conference on racism within the media.

‘A tricky subject at the best of times,’ said Sue Lovett when the speeches were over and she was relaxing with Greg in her hotel foyer. She informed him that his destiny in life was to be a big fish in a small pond. In New York he was a flounder, floundering out of his depth.

‘Come home,’ she said.

‘What’s at home?’ he asked.

Ireland was a time bomb, ticking with the excesses of the past. Politicians trying to shake off the touch of golden handshakes. Bankers thumping their breasts and shouting ‘Sorry…
Sorry
…’ for bringing the country to its knees. Developers scrutinising their tax returns and discreet off-shore accounts. Brutal, sacred secrets finally spoken aloud through the media confessional. Albert Grant’s name was mentioned, the hint of a land scandal. It came to nothing in the end, as all enquiries did when they concerned him.

‘Our source is his niece,’ said Sue. ‘Her name is Beth McKeever.’

Greg reminded her that Justin Boyd had dropped the story. No proof.

‘She went over Justin’s head and contacted me directly.’ Sue smiled, a hint of approval. ‘She’s a determined woman.’

‘Bad blood between them, obviously.’

Sue nodded. ‘Sounds like it. Her story could be worth a second look. Are you interested?’

‘Not particularly. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a job here.’

‘I’ve watched
Stateside Review
,’ Sue said. ‘Interesting stuff. Why aren’t you surrounded by dancers with sequins in their belly buttons?’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Yes, Greg, it is that bad. What’s happened to you?’

‘Nothing. Apart from clearing out the “we-make-a difference” crap from my head. What difference did I ever make? Michael Hannon? His party forgave him as soon as he prayed for forgiveness. His wife is still holding his hand and his girlfriend has her own reality show.’

‘While your marriage has broken up – and your child is dead. Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘I’m not thinking at all, Sue. I’m surviving. That’s what you do in this city.’

‘Or disappear into a programme called
Stateside Review
.’

‘My friend Ellen calls it candyfloss. Her advertising revenue has never been higher.’

‘I believe you.’ Sue stood up and shook his hand. She’d arranged to have dinner with some friends and he was due back at the office. ‘You have a job waiting if you decide to come home.’

‘I thought Justin Boyd was more than adequately filling my shoes.’

‘Justin’s a boy scout, not a muckraker.’ She frowned. ‘I need you on the programme, Greg. But I’ve no intention of begging. Albert Grant’s niece said the story would never have died if you’d been handling it. Do you want her number?’

‘For what purpose?’

‘Oh, you know.’ She shrugged and opened her briefcase, briskly handing him a business card. ‘Just in case your producer decides to bring on the belly dancers.’

In his office he thought about Albert Grant and how, on Christmas night, he’d drunk malt whiskey and delivered a lusty rendering of ‘A Nation Once Again’. A true-blue armchair patriot who would take credit for the building of a dog kennel.

Justin had dismissed the woman’s evidence. Stories, rumours, pub gossip. Yet each had its own momentum. Greg had seen the rumour mill in action, the media frenzy once the hint of a scandal was floated and discovered to have substance. The hidden voices coming out of the woodwork when they knew there was someone who would listen. He felt an almost forgotten clench of excitement as he lifted his phone, tapped a number and asked to speak to Beth McKeever.

G
reg had forgotten
the moist wind, the hint of rain, the buffeting, restless clouds. He had forgotten the patchwork green that rose to meet him as the plane flew low over the Irish coast. But when he walked into the arrivals hall of Dublin Airport and saw Eva waiting, he felt as if the fist was closing around him once again. He looked into her eyes and knew that nothing had changed.

Back in the fold of
Elucidate
he found it difficult to believe he had ever been away. The sounds were the same: hothouse gossip, speculation, the excited buzz of facts confirmed and packaged for an evening’s viewing. He took back his apartment, which had been rented to a friend, a forty-year-old engineer with the hygiene habits of a student on the razz. By the time Greg finished sponging, mopping and bleaching, it was as organised as it had ever been in his pre-Eva days. The household plants gleamed. The exotic fish still swam with stately grace in their aquarium, friendly and darting – unlike the sullen killer shoal he had left behind in New York. He sat watching them at play, wondering if they had noticed his departure or grieved for his friendly hand to feed them. He knew the answer to that one. Why clutter your mind with incidental emotions when you only have to concentrate on swimming in a straight line? Sometimes even fish could be a source of envy.

I
n the flesh
Greg Enright was less intimidating than on television, with kinder eyes and an attentive manner that immediately reassured her.

‘I can’t be associated with this story,’ she warned him when they met in a small hotel on the outskirts of Dublin. ‘My husband’s future is tied up with the Anaskeagh industrial park. I’ll help behind the scenes in every way I can but I need to know I can rely utterly on your discretion.’

He listened carefully to everything she had to say. Under his careful questioning Derry Mulhall’s rambling story began to take shape. She told him about Kitty Grimes and her fear of exposure.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle her gently,’ he said and smiled wryly when she advised him that a rum and coke would be appreciated by Hatty Beckett. His gut instinct was to start the investigation with the industrial park. He would focus on its development and start digging the dirt from there.

‘I’ve checked the ACII records,’ he told her. ‘You’re right about Clasheen being the original location. That makes sense. Trucks would have had direct access to the main Dublin Road, unlike in Anaskeagh.’

Beth nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to a builder who was promised work on the Clasheen site. I think he’ll talk but you need to appreciate that these people are afraid. You’ll have to gain their confidence first.’

‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ he asked. ‘Your uncle is a very powerful man. Why are you so determined to bring him down?’

‘I want justice―’

‘Justice? Or revenge?’ Greg Enright had a narrow, watchful face. A gaze that sharpened, searching, Beth suspected, for a story behind the one she’d handed him.

‘My uncle controls Anaskeagh,’ she said. ‘He sees it as his own personal fiefdom. He’s your story. Mine is my own business. If we’re to work together you have to respect my right to privacy. You also have to trust me.’

‘Trust must be mutual,’ he said. ‘If I feel that you have an ulterior motive then the story is dead.’

They shook hands before they parted. Beth thought it was a pity he didn’t smile more often.

Before returning to Anaskeagh she drove to Havenstone. Swans would never again swim on Estuary Road. The narrow potholed lane had disappeared, replaced by a slip road banked by flyovers and roundabouts. Peter looked younger, as if years had fallen away from him. His skin was fresh, no angry blotches, his eyes alive. She recognised the old restlessness from his student days, the same contagious energy. She walked with him to the back of Havenstone and entered the garden, standing still for an instant to absorb the transformation. Within this walled enclosure, onions burgeoned like fists from the soil and the ridged rows of vegetables captured the spirit of the market garden that was still such an important feature of the old village.

Later, when she called to Connie’s house and met Lindsey, she understood the reason for Peter’s enthusiasm.

‘Her name is Eva,’ Lindsey announced. ‘And he’s absolutely crazy about her. Imagine falling in love at his age?’

‘He’s not due for the old folks’ home yet.’ Beth laughed. ‘Falling in love isn’t solely the prerogative of the young, you know. Is the feeling reciprocated?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Lindsey shook her head, as if puzzled by the complexities of human emotions. ‘She spends a lot of time at Havenstone and he cooks her fabulous meals, so she’s either in love with him or she’s a compulsive overeater.’

‘What’s she like?’ Beth asked.

Lindsey frowned, a puzzled expression on her face.

‘I like Eva a lot – but I don’t know if it’s because she reminds me of Sara.’

‘Sara?’

‘It’s kind of weird. Sometimes I think it’s my imagination and then she moves her head a certain way or smiles and it’s as if I’m looking at Sara. I thought she was a ghost when I first saw her. I hope Peter’s in love with her for the right reasons.’

Beth was startled by her daughter’s comment but before she could reply Connie arrived home from the village. She was carrying grocery bags and seemed frailer than she’d been at Christmas but cheerful as she fussed over Beth and enquired about her grandchildren.

‘You have to visit us again,’ Beth said. ‘No more excuses.’

‘Maybe I’ll come for Easter,’ said Connie when Beth was leaving. ‘If you’re sure it won’t be upsetting for your mother.’

‘Don’t worry about Marjory.’ Beth was unable to keep her bitterness at bay. ‘She hasn’t visited us once since we moved. I call to see her every few days and do her shopping. It makes no difference. She can’t forgive me for marrying Stewart.’ She hugged her mother-in-law. ‘Your grandchildren miss you. And so do I. That’s all that matters.’

T
wilight was settling
on Anaskeagh Head when Beth reached the town. She parked her car on the old pier and walked along the stony, uneven surface. The tide was in, lapping dark against the wall. A white cruiser came to a stop some distance from the shore. She watched a group of men on board busily anchoring and securing the vessel. Seagulls screeched and swirled above them, anxious to partake in the results of a successful fishing trip. Four men climbed down the ladder and into a small dinghy. It cut swiftly through the waves and, as they mounted the stone steps at the side of the pier, she saw her uncle. Ruddy and relaxed from his day’s fishing, he was flanked by two friends and his son.

‘Well, if it isn’t Beth McKeever.’ Her uncle’s handshake was hard and purposeful. She tried not to flinch. ‘You remember my favourite niece.’ She recognised his two companions, Ben Layden and Harry Moore. They nodded politely, anxious to be on their way.

When their cars disappeared from view she returned to her own car and watched the sun sink beyond the headland. Greg Enright’s hair was dark with a smattering of grey. Too young to be going grey but there was nothing youthful about him. He would take her uncle apart and Beth would finally breathe freely again.

S
pring brought
the garden centre to life. In the mornings it was mostly older men and women who wandered among the plants and shrubs. At weekends young couples arrived, baby slings and strollers, planning gardens, buying trees and shrubs that would grow with their children. In the evenings, while she waited for her lover to arrive, Eva walked by the lake, where bluebells, cowslips and forget-me-nots fluttered in green shady hollows.

Her husband was back in the interrogator’s chair. A class act to watch, and Eva did watch him. She was still fascinated by this unflinching man who had wept with joy when their child was born and wept so bitterly into her shoulder when her brief life had ended.

In his apartment they sat stiffly opposite each other. He spoke about their relationship. They were both ego-driven individuals who’d rushed into marriage without considering each other’s needs. They had an unplanned baby. Faye broke their hearts. He’d been unfaithful to Eva, but that hurt could have been absolved if they’d stayed still in the welter of grief that had surrounded them and considered what they meant to each other. Instead, they’d run in different directions and now, quiet at last, they had a chance to salvage something from their experiences.

How she envied his ability to lay his thoughts out in such a logical order. Hers were incoherent. She wondered what he would say if she told him about Peter Wallace. Would he reason with such calm assurance if he knew about those nights, the lust and thrust of passion?

There was no going back, Eva told him. For an instant he was silent. Then he offered her something they both needed. Friendship in exchange for pain. No demands. No expectations. It would be a new experience for both of them. Could friendship rise from dead love? It was something they both wanted to believe.

She met Maria for a meal that night. They ordered wine and the early-bird option on the menu. Maria’s engagement ring sparkled as she discussed her wedding plans. Eva would be her bridesmaid… Or would she be the matron of honour? In other words, Maria demanded, was her marriage on or off? Eva told her she and Greg were friends.

‘No such thing!’ Maria rolled her eyes. ‘Never heard of it before.’

The restaurant filled, the noise level rose. This was passing time, a choreography of movement that would carry Eva nearer to real time and the wanton pleasure of Havenstone.

They made love in his bedroom. It reminded her of an old man’s room: dark walls and walnut furniture, a solid bed with a carved wooden headboard. It had once belonged to his father, he told her. A silent man with fine silver hair who grew grapes in the garden she’d restored and collected religious icons. His mother had been a strong woman, dominant. He brought his parents alive with a few words but he would not talk about his wife. Eva shivered when she passed the locked room where Sara Wallace once slept. She didn’t want to think about her but somehow, surreptitiously, she was becoming part of her thoughts. Why did she die? Had her husband’s passion been repugnant to her? Was there ever any passion between them? What did she know about Peter Wallace: lonely only child, one-time factory owner, failed artist, childless widower?