The Betrayal - A Novel

  The Betrayal

  A gripping novel of psychological suspense

  Laura Elliot

  Published by Bookouture

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  An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.

  23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN

  United Kingdom

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  www.bookouture.com

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  Copyright © Laura Elliot 2015

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  Laura Elliot has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-910751-33-6

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to acknowledge the many people who helped me with advice and encouragement throughout the writing of The Betrayal. First off, special thanks must go to my husband Sean who showed infinite patience throughout this process. He was always willing to read and comment on the latest draft and keep the coffee coming. To my family, Tony, who broke my day with his regular phone calls, Ciara for her thoughtful analysis of my story, and Michelle, who talked me down every time I insisted I was taking up bungee jumping as a less stressful hobby option to that of writing fiction. Thanks also to their spouses and partner, Roddy, Louise and Harry – and to my grandchildren, Romy and Ava who have brought such joy, laugher and love into my life.

  I’d like to extend my appreciation to Sinead Mullally for her willingness to discuss the mysteries of the comatose state. To Patricia O’Reilly who regularly took time off from her busy writing career to meet and talk about The Betrayal.

  Thank you to Oliver Rhodes and the team at Bookouture, my editor Claire Bord for her sensitive editing, Kim Nash for her enthusiastic promotional expertise and Lacey Decker for her eagle-eyed scrutiny of my finished manuscript. It has been a pleasure working with you.

  My extended family, those close to home and those separated by continents, your steadfast support throughout my writing career has been invaluable. You’ve kept a firm hand on my back and your wise counsel has been much valued.

  To my friends, too many to name, but always ready to phone and insist it’s time to switch off the computer and meet for a catch-up chat and meal …thank you for always being there.

  Finally, to my readers – the engine of every writer’s career – thank you one and all for your loyalty, your letters, reviews and social media interaction. It is always a pleasure to hear from you.

  To Pauline, Louise and Ronan in Vancouver – oceans apart but always close.

  Also dedicated to the memory of my much-loved brother-in-law, Don.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Nadine

  A glimpse. That’s all it takes. One glimpse as she steps from the taxi and I’m back there again, on the edge of a blade, waiting for the relief of another searing cut. I watch her go, her confident stride in tune with the sway of her pert behind. Karin Moylan is more beautiful that I remember, still the petite, hourglass figure, the dainty Cinderella feet. A scar from my teens opening on the turn of a heel. No time for hesitation. I ease back into my car and take refuge. What a coward I am. To hide from my past instead of confronting it with a nonchalant nod, a casual greeting, a polite enquiry about her mother’s health… no… that’s not possible. I watch as she enters the airport. The automatic doors open and close behind her. Able to breathe again, I turn my face towards Jake when he taps on the window to say goodbye. I slide the glass down. He leans forward to kiss me. His lips touch mine, a fleeting caress.

  ‘Ring you when I get to New York,’ he says.

  ‘Have a safe flight.’ My hands tighten on the steering wheel, my foot impatient on the accelerator as an authoritative voice on the public address system warns about the penalties of lingering overlong in the drop-off zone.

  Jake grips his overnight case, his briefcase in his other hand. Years of experience have taught him to travel light. He follows in her footsteps and turns to wave at the entrance to Departures.

  It’s been raining all morning and the windscreen wipers swish briskly as I drive towards the Eastside Business Quarter. Did she see me when her taxi veered past my car and parked further along the drop-off zone? Her scarf fluttered like wings over her shoulders. I’d forgotten how she always favoured blue plumage. Would Jake notice her among the crowd of passengers surging through Departures? Would he recognise her if he did? I fight back panic, shake my head. Too many years have passed since that summer in Monsheelagh and their time together was fleeting.

  I could ring Jenny when I reach the office but she’s probably asleep. The eight-hour time difference between here and Vancouver spoils any chance of an impulsive conversation. I’ll ring her later this evening when I’m calmer.

  Shock recedes. It has no place else to go as my day gathers momentum. With Jake away we’re one down in Tõnality, the company we run together, and most of my morning is spent tracking a lost consignment of mandolins that was supposed to be en route to us from China. The lost mandolins are traced and rerouted back to us via Rotterdam. I work throughout the afternoon on a new marketing strategy for the STRUM brand. The business park is empty by the time I set the security alarm and close the shutters. No one hangs around here in the evenings. It’s too soulless, too uniform with its cube-like buildings and parallel roads. Jake calls it a battery coop, a place to labour and leave when the day is done.

  The silence of the empty house bears down on me when I open the front door. I should eat something; rustle up a pasta, grill a steak. In the end I scramble eggs and toast bread. The kitchen glistens, chrome and granite, honey-toned wood. Four years ago, when we moved here from our modest three-bedroom house on Oakdale Terrace, I joked with Jake that we’d need a skateboard to work this kitchen. I’ve become accustomed to my spacious surroundings but now, with everyone gone, the atmosphere feels different, filled with unresolved issues. The weight of lives lived separately within its walls.

  My footsteps seem unnaturally loud as I walk across the marble tiles. A pair of shoes that Jake decided against bringing to New York lie in the hall. I carry them upstairs to our bedroom and place them on the shoe rack. The bed is as tossed as we left it this morning, our pillows still dented. I kick off my high heels and lace up my trainers, change into a track suit. A run will pound her out of my head.

  Could I have imagined her? I’ve done so in the past, glimpsed a swirl of blonde hair and found myself staring into the blank, blue gaze of a stranger. This woman’s hair was short, sculpted to her scalp. Perhaps I was mistaken, hassled by traffic jams and having to drop Jake off at the airport. But why that sudden shocked recognition? My skin lifting as if electrified by memory? No, I was not mistaken.

  The gates of Bartizan Downs slowly slide apart. I turn right and drive towards Malahide. The village is quiet, apart from a trickle of people emerging from the railway station and a few smokers standing outside Duffy’s pub. I turn down Old Street and head towards the estuary shore where strollers, joggers and dog walkers come in the evening to close off their day. I love this place, with its shrieking seagulls and stately swans. The rain has stopped but the clouds are heavy with the threat of more to follow. It will be dark soon. Already, Sea Aster is invisible on the opposite shore. I lived
there with Jake when we were first married. Gentle Rosanna with her camera and binoculars gave us succour when we were desperate. Does her ghost hover over the old house, trapped by the threads of memory? Three months since her death. All that wonderful bird knowledge ebbing away on her last breath. It was her time to go but I still feel the raw grief of her passing. The house belongs to Eleanor now but she will never love it as her mother did.

  I’m tired by the time I return to Bartizan Downs. Lights blaze from neighbouring windows. We don’t draw our curtains here. We’re gated and protected, fortified against each other and from the world outside by high walls. I shower and slip on my pyjamas.

  Jenny is at her desk when I ring Vancouver, her printer clattering beside her. She listens without interruption while I tell her about this chance sighting.

  ‘Are you sure it was Karin?’ she asks when I pause for breath.

  ‘I’m almost positive. Her hair’s short now but she still has that cut-glass profile.’

  A second phone keeps ringing and interrupting our conversation. ‘Hold on, Nadine. I’d better take this.’ She sounds distracted.

  ‘You’re busy. I’ll go. I just wanted to tell you about her.’

  ‘No, wait.’ She speaks briefly to someone than comes back to me. ‘I can’t believe she still has the power to upset you so much.’

  ‘Neither can I.’ Once again I experience that breathless jolt of recognition.

  ‘It’s so long ago,’ Jenny says. ‘What happened was not your fault. You’ve worked through it. You’ve moved on. Don’t let her get to you again. She’s not, and never was, important.’

  ‘I’m sorry I interrupted you.’

  ‘You didn’t interrupt me.’ Her voice sharpens. ‘Are you listening to me, Nadine?’

  ‘Yes… yes.’

  ‘Ring me anytime you want to talk some more about this. Promise.’

  ‘I will. How’s work?’

  ‘We’re wrapping up the documentary. It’s always manic at this stage. Is everything okay in Tõnality?’

  ‘Business could be better,’ I admit. ‘This recession is getting worse.’

  ‘I keep reading the financial reports. It sounds grim.’ The second phone rings again. ‘Hold on a minute. I’ll switch this off.’

  ‘No, take it Jenny. You’ve obviously up to your eyes. I’ll be in touch soon. Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  Then she’s gone, back to her world of ozone layers and climate change and melting icecaps. Her documentaries are more scary than a zombie movie. She’s my best friend, wise and sensitive–and has had her heart severely broken on two occasions. When she gives advice I listen.

  Karin Moylan Never Was Important.

  Chapter 2

  Jake

  Some people play with worry beads when they were stressed, others attend a shrink. Jake Saunders used music. As an escape route it never failed him and now, with an hour to kill before he boarded his flight to New York, he opened his laptop and plugged in his earphones. He replayed the last recording he had made. A melody with potential, he decided, but the lyrics were weak. Hackneyed lines that made him wince. He needed to hack down to the heart of the song. A long goodbye to a love affair. The relationship over but the dependency on togetherness too ingrained to allow for separation. Art reflecting life; it was a thought too close for comfort.

  Nadine’s abrupt departure at the airport bothered him. Her expression had been so distant as she stared at him through the car window that, for an instant, he thought she was going to drive away without saying goodbye. Her mood changed so easily these days. The pressure of running Tõnality was taking its toll on both of them. The impact of an empty house, their parenting done. This should be their time to wind down. Instead, they were locked into a recession and a debt that was balanced like a rock on their shoulders.

  The boarding area gradually filled up. Jake bent lower over his laptop and tried to ignore the pungent garlic fumes emanating from the man sitting beside him. He should be working on the spreadsheet for Ed Jaworski instead of wasting time on a song that was certain to remain unsung. He had a drawer full of such songs. Half-finished ideas that inevitably fizzled out when some new emergency at work took over.

  His neighbour stood up and stretched, strode towards the toilets. His seat was immediately taken by a woman. Her perfume battled against the garlic fumes and won. Jake breathed deeply. The perfume Nadine used was light and floral but this was heavy and curiously intimate, as if the scent had been blended in a moist, exotic jungle. She opened a magazine, flicked pages, crossed her legs: small, slender feet, blue shoes, sheer tights. He stole a sideways glance at her. Mid-thirties, maybe older, he guessed. There was a maturity about her full, glossy mouth, and her blonde hair, short and brushed back from her forehead in a quiff would only be worn by a woman confident enough to know she could carry off such a chiselled image and still look beautiful.

  Earlier, he had noticed her when he was going through security. Something about the tilt of her head as she spoke to an official looked familiar. The impression was so vague that she had passed through the security gates and out of his mind until now.

  A collective groan arose from the passengers when an announcement informed them that their flight to New York would be delayed. She closed her magazine, tapped her fingers against the cover. Her nails, perfect ovals, were painted an iridescent blue. He switched off his laptop. Impossible to concentrate. He hated airports. The ruthless security routine, the slumped wait in the boarding area and the eventual slow shuffle aboard after unexplained delays. He accidentally jogged her elbow as he removed his earphones.

  ‘Sorry.’ He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. ‘I wonder what’s caused the delay?’

  ‘Some technical hitch, I guess.’ She stood up and buttoned her jacket. ‘I’m going for a coffee. Can I bring something back for you?’

  ‘Why don’t I go with you?’ He put the laptop in his overnight case and zipped it. ‘Stretch my legs. We’ll be sitting long enough when we finally get on board.’

  He slowed his stride as they walked towards the coffee bar. The women in his life were tall and long-limbed, his wife and mother, his two daughters. Everything about this woman was petite, from the crown of her head to the toes of her high-heeled shoes. He insisted on paying for cappuccinos and two Danishes, which he carried to a nearby table.

  ‘Will the delay affect you?’ she asked when they were seated. She sounded Irish but her accent, with its slight drag on the vowels, suggested she had been living for some time in New York.

  ‘I’ve to attend a business meeting but it’s not until tomorrow,’ he replied. ‘What about you? Business or pleasure?’

  ‘I live in New York.’ She removed her jacket and hung it from the back of the chair. Her dress was sleeveless with a low V in front, the hem resting primly on her knees.

  He stretched out his hand. ‘I’m Jake.’

  ‘I know who you are.’ She shook his hand and tilted her head, a half-smile tugging at her lips. ‘You’re the Jake Saunders from Shard.’

  He felt a once-familiar and long-forgotten buzz of recognition.

  ‘I’m flattered that you remember.’

  ‘Oh, I do remember.’ She held out her arm, the inside exposed, and ran her fingers along the pale skin. ‘This is where you once signed your autograph.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ He struggled for a name, an occasion, a place to remember her by. How many autographs had he signed? Thousands, probably, writing his name with a flourish for the young women who called out to him as they waited outside the pubs and clubs, their arms and autograph books an extension of their thrusting, nubile bodies. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to enlighten me.’

  ‘I’m Karin Moylan.’ She spoke with the certainty of someone who knew her name would bring instant recollection.

  ‘Karin Moylan… I don’t believe it.’ The memory came back to him in disjointed flashes. The holiday, the music, and Karin, a waifish shadow agains
t the glow of Nadine with her blaze of red hair and long, coltish legs. ‘I’d never have recognised you. No… that’s not true. Now that you say it…’ He stopped, embarrassed as he attempted to join the fragments of that holiday together. What was the name of the place where they stayed? Somewhere in West Clare, he remembered. Fishing boats and a cliff, a golden beach and long sunshine days. A ramshackle house where he, along with the lads who made up the band, had stayed for a month to work on their first album.

  ‘Monsheelagh,’ she said, as if picking up his thoughts. ‘I was on holiday with my parents.’ Her eyes, slightly too large for her small, heart-shaped face, had a disconcerting directness when she added, ‘Nadine was staying with us.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I remember.’

  ‘How is she? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.’

  ‘She’s good. Busy, as we all are these days.’

  ‘I was studying in London when I heard about your marriage. You were both so young.’ Her voice dropped a tone, donating pity. ‘I hope everything worked out for you.’

  ‘Yes, it did.’ He resented her pity and rushed defensively to banish it. ‘We’ve a good life and four terrific kids.’

  ‘I never meant to lose touch with her but you know the way it is.’ Her scarf rippled when she shrugged, the material so light and gauzy it seemed as if a deep breath would float it from her shoulders. ‘Our lives veered off in different directions but I’ve never forgotten her.’

  ‘These things happen,’ he agreed.

  ‘I still imagined you with long hair and those wild tiger streaks.’

  ‘The streaks went a long time ago,’ he admitted. ‘So did the wildness. These days I’m one of society’s staunchest pillars.’