In My Mother's Name: A totally addictive and emotional psychological thriller Read online

  This morning she had found three more bouquets of flowers propped up in front of the wall outside Hillcrest, handwritten notes with saccharine messages of sympathy attached to them. The words ‘In memory of Marianne. R.I.P.’ had been written in red on one note while another was covered with emoji love hearts. Unable to cope with the avalanche of comment, Davina had closed down Reedstown Reminiscences. That hadn’t stopped the publicity and Hillcrest, having been incorrectly referenced as the meeting hall used by the Thorns, was attracting sightseers. The crazies and the curious, spying through her windows and trampling over her garden. They posted photographs of her house on Facebook and Instagram only they called it Cult Cottage or Thorns’ Thatch or other ridiculous, made-up names.

  Marianne Mooney’s lies were being shared on other sites. New platforms were evolving all the time, some for the express purpose of debunking the diary, others claiming it was shining a light on a hidden scandal. What was Liam Thornton doing? He was supposed to take control of this situation. His mother’s reputation was being trashed and he seemed incapable of putting a stop to it. But social media was unstoppable. She had seen cartoons of three mice with blindfolds on sites that also featured three monkeys, paws over ears, mouth, eyes. The Three Musketeers had been Photoshopped, their faces left blank and some wit had encouraged viewers to fill in the spaces with the features of the guilty three.

  She left Keith’s side and went to the window. The blinds at the back of The Lodge were closed but the light in the living room was on. Christy must still be up. Like his son, he was a sound sleeper, and he was usually in bed by eleven o’clock. Although he rejected his cardiac specialist’s opinion that he had experienced a panic attack, he had been going to bed even earlier since he was discharged from hospital. Davina, who knew him better than anyone, understood his fury over his diagnosis. It undermined his credibility. His heart attack had challenged his belief that he was indestructible but he had accepted it as something over which he had no control. A panic attack, however, smacked of weakness and he had warned her and Keith not to mention it to anyone.

  He was visible against the blind, a shadow shape that played with light. As she watched it seemed as if the image shifted and divided into two. It changed again as Christy moved away and was lost from sight. She should check on him, see what was keeping him up so late, but he would probably tell her to mind her own business, as he did yesterday afternoon when she called into The Lodge.

  He had been sitting at the table in his living room, a writing pad open in front of him, his hand held protectively over a letter he was writing. Unable to banish the memory of his bitterness in the hospital when he had looked at his son, who was supposed to talk to Davina but never did – and was still refusing to do so – she needed someone to understand her fear.

  ‘Why do you want Keith to clean up his own shit?’ she had said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Christy had seemed startled, genuinely so. He was bleary-eyed and flushed, his once-strong features bloated. It was obvious that he had forgotten the words he had breathed at his son.

  ‘That’s what you told him in the hospital. Don’t you remember? You said there was a storm coming.’

  ‘I’ve no memory of saying anything of the sort.’ His waspish tone lacked conviction. ‘If I did, it must have been the drugs talking. God knows they pumped enough into me―’

  ‘You were referring to that blog. It’s what you were reading when you suffered your panic attack.’

  ‘I didn’t suffer―’

  ‘Christy, be honest with me. Is there any truth to those diary entries?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous―’

  ‘Tell me… tell me!’ Her cries had pitched her fear into the open. ‘Who knows what information Adele Foyle is gathering? Keith won’t talk to me. You know what he’s like. Was he hanging around with that little slut?’

  ‘That little slut, as you call her, is not your problem.’ He had gathered himself away from her, frightened by her loss of control. ‘If Adele Foyle continues spreading her poison, I know exactly how to manage the situation.’

  ‘You don’t understand social media, Christy. Those entries have gone viral. They’re trending on Twitter…’ She was filled with a crazed desire to shout: If those diary entries are true and Marianne Mooney was raped, who do you think those three men would be?

  He stood and held her upper arms, his touch firm, reassuring. ‘Go back to your house, Davina. When I need your wisdom, I’ll ask for it, but it’s not necessary on this occasion.’ He had fobbed off her questions, silenced her protests and sent her away. He left soon afterwards, driving too fast down Summit Road, as he always did. His plan, if he had one, would be played close to his chest.

  She must relax and stop allowing insidious suspicions to prey on her mind. Back in bed, she drifted off to sleep and awoke again into the same spiralling thought process. Logic and common sense were the losers in the early hours. Unable to stay still and listen to Keith’s murmuring snores, she slipped on her dressing gown and made her way along the garden path to The Lodge. She unlocked the back door and called Christy’s name. No answer. The television was still on, canned laughter, applause. He must have fallen asleep on his recliner. His laptop was open on the kitchen table and she was not surprised to see that he had been checking the latest blog entry. It was now being called The Marianne Diary. Adding a The in front of those pathetic entries had given it status, more gravitas.

  The atmosphere in the small kitchen was claustrophobic. The plots that were hatched here when it was his constituency clinic, the decisions taken, ambitions expanded, hopes dashed. Davina watching, listening, learning the political ropes until she became the backroom guru. The planner who laid down the foundations for each successful election campaign. It was just a matter of time before Christy retired. When that happened, she would be ready to step into his shoes. The Power Couple, shoulder to shoulder with her husband until she outgrew him. But now this uncertainty, this suspicion, the sense that she was losing control was growing stronger every time she read another diary entry. Checking the latest one, she held on to the edge of the table for support.

  ‘Chinese,’ Shane said. I remember his voice shaking and the blood on his hands as he held the box up to the light for me to see. He said it was a clue. The writing on the package was weird, all squiggles and squares and symbols like the way Amy Zhou writes her name on her copybooks.

  She ignored the sudden urge to return to bed and pull the duvet over her head. This time she was not leaving until Christy answered her questions. She moved towards the living room and opened the door. Another blast of laughter from the television hit her. Something was wrong. She could feel it on her skin, a prickling sensation that sharpened her awareness as she looked towards the recliner. Christy’s legs were splayed, as if he had drifted into a half-slumber while watching television, but she could see that his stillness was absolute. She shook him, shouted his name as if the force of her voice would bring him back.

  Unable to comprehend that he was dead when he looked so relaxed, she searched for a pulse, convinced it would still be beating. His head lolled to one side. His body was warm, flaccid, his face peaceful enough to convince her that death when it arrived had caught him unawares.

  33 Rachel

  Rachel sat ramrod straight between her colleagues. Her uniform felt tight, too warm for this crowded church. It had been a long service and throats were being cleared, attention drifting. The nausea had been persistent throughout the ceremony and she was afraid she would have to make an undignified bolt down the aisle before the requiem mass drew to a conclusion. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck and she swallowed hard as she focused all her attention on the coffin where the remains of Christy Lewis lay.

  Three days had passed since she stood in his home and officially pronounced him dead in the presence of his son and daughter-in-law. The news had spread quickly through Reedstown and Bob was in the office by sunrise preparing the former politician’s obitua
ry. A second heart attack. The doctor believed he could have been sleeping when it struck. No pause between life and death, terror stilled before it could latch its claws onto him.

  ‘Unlike my mother,’ Keith had said, his boyish good looks in stark contrast to his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Cancer took her before her time but at least she was prepared.’

  Dazed with shock and disbelief, Davina had made her witness statement, the shake in her hand as she signed it making her signature almost illegible.

  Today, she looked majestic in black. Pale but composed. She must be pleased with the turnout. The crowd included top politicians, who formed a guard of honour as Christy’s body was borne shoulder-high into the church. A row of uniformed, high-ranking members of the Garda force were also in attendance.

  Keith Lewis approached the altar to deliver the eulogy. His ability to hide a party political broadcast within the speech had to be admired, Rachel thought as he described how his father inspired his son to follow in his footsteps.

  ‘I was still in my teens when I accompanied him on one of his first trade missions to China,’ he said. ‘I saw at first hand his unstinting commitment to furthering the interests of Irish companies abroad. Recently, I had the pleasure of leading a similar trade mission to China. He came with us and the warmth of the welcome we received from everyone we met was due in no small measure to my father’s ability to establish not just business contacts but lifetime friendships. Today, those friends have travelled from many countries to celebrate his life and honour his memory.’

  The church filled with incense as Christy’s coffin, covered with a single, tasteful spray of white roses, was shouldered by the pall bearers. Keith and Liam Thornton, the tallest of the six, brought up the rear.

  Once the coffin had been placed inside the hearse, the solemnity that marked the ceremony ended. Laughter was heard, subdued but audible. Mourners crowded around Keith, shaking hands, offering condolences. Rachel turned to find Julie Thornton beside her.

  ‘How are you, Julie?’ she asked.

  ‘All good. Cherish what we have. We never know when it can be taken from us.’

  ‘True. Keith gave quite an impressive eulogy.’

  ‘Very impressive. If you must tell a lie, make it a whopper.’ Julie’s tone was non-committal. ‘That goes for the obituary Bob wrote. He couldn’t stand the man but needs must. I was glad to see him getting together again with Liam and Keith. Life’s too short to allow any unpleasantness from the past to dictate our behaviour.’

  ‘Sorry, Julie, what do you mean?’

  ‘Didn’t he mention the meeting?’ Julie sounded surprised. ‘He met up with Liam and Keith to discuss publicity for the festival?’ She took a step back as Keith joined them and turned towards an elderly woman, who had been trying to attract her attention.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming, Sergeant Darcy.’ He clasped her hand between his own and smiled. ‘My father would have been honoured by the attendance from the Gardai.’

  ‘We do our duty when called upon.’

  ‘And do so with great dignity. Where’s Bob? I want to thank him for that excellent obituary he wrote for the Review. I know he crossed swords at times with my father but the relationship between the press and the state is not meant to be an easy one. Despite the negative coverage he occasionally received, Christy had great respect for his integrity.’

  Rachel’s gorge rose. Did he know about the letter? Was he playing cat and mouse with her, uttering meaningless platitudes when they both knew she had been faced with an impossible choice? The funeral director hovered at a polite distance and nodded at Keith. The cortège was ready to leave for the crematorium.

  ‘Will you join us for lunch afterwards?’ Keith asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve a busy afternoon ahead of me.’

  The cremation ceremony was short. As it neared its end, a violinist played. ‘The Lark Ascending’ and a selection of photographs spanning Christy’s life were flashed onto a screen. Listening to the notes rising and falling, Rachel imagined the swoop of a lark as it played with the breeze, the joyous pitch lifting it upwards into the clear, unpolluted air.

  Photographs from the recent Chinese trip that Keith mentioned in his eulogy filled the screen. On that occasion Christy was playing second fiddle to his son, but photographs from his earlier trip showed a younger-looking Christy posing at the Great Wall and outside an elaborate temple. Keith was standing between his parents, a cigarette held nonchalantly between his fingers.

  She had killed his father. No need for a gun or a knife. Just a battering of words, especially the unspoken ones they had both been afraid to utter. In saner moments, Rachel knew that the official verdict was the correct one and Christy had suffered a second heart attack. But she was unable to banish the memory of their last bitter exchange and now, as she watched the montage of photographs, her breath felt laboured with suspicion. Chinese lettering, its vertical lines, squares, angles, squiggles… she was making a preposterous connection, yet it refused to go away.

  ‘I need to check something in the Review archives,’ she said as Bob drove them away from the crematorium.

  ‘No problem.’ He glanced across at her. ‘If you’re busy, I can check it for you?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘Will you have time for a coffee in the Kasket afterwards?’

  ‘Afraid not. I’ll be catching up all day.’

  ‘Me too. Some funeral, eh?’

  ‘It certainly was. Julie said you were at a meeting in her house recently. You never mentioned it.’

  ‘Didn’t I? That’s the problem these days. We never have time to sit down and have a decent conversation.’ He grimaced across at her. ‘Just as well it was a cremation. Otherwise, a stake would have been necessary to keep that man down.’

  Had Adele searched only for evidence on the dates after her mother’s presumed assault or had she searched backwards, as Rachel was doing? She exhaled sharply as she read a headline on the front page.

  Politician Denies Chinese Junket Accusation

  A member of the opposition had claimed that Christy Lewis used taxpayers’ money to fund a family holiday in China with his wife and son. The photographs Rachel had seen in the crematorium had been used to illustrate the news item. She checked the date the newspaper was published. Two weeks before the alleged assault on Marianne Mooney took place. She must keep using the word ‘alleged’. Otherwise, she would lose her objectivity. Where was the proof that a cigarette packet found at the scene of a crime was anything other than the delusion of a distraught child? If Adele Foyle came to her with such a tenuous connection, she would reject it out of hand.

  She continued scanning old newspapers. Keith was photographed regularly, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Three young men at a rock festival, stupid, inebriated grins, beer cans in hand, tents in the background. They were photographed at the Reedstown annual scramble, black leather, boots, helmets under their arms as they posed beside their motorbikes. She read the caption underneath.

  Best friends Keith Lewis, Bob Molloy and Liam Thornton preparing for the big challenge.

  Shrinking back from the screen, she recognised Bob’s swift confident stride as he entered the basement. His hands on her shoulders, that reassuringly familiar touch when he asked if she had found the information she needed.

  She nodded, unable to reply. ‘I have to get back to work. Another emergency. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ Jessica called out as Rachel left the office.

  ‘All good.’ She forced herself to slow down and smile at the receptionist. How could she sound so calm when she was tormented by doubts? By unbelievable suspicions that seemed to have formed beneath some slimy fungus, its spores multiplying.

  The red sky had spent its rage and a twilight haze was settling over the garden but she had no desire to go outside. She cooked while Bob chased television channels, unable to decide if he wanted to watch news, sports or a nat
ure documentary.

  ‘Why did you attend Christy’s funeral?’ she asked when they sat down to eat. ‘You detested him yet you wrote a glowing obituary about him. It seems so hypocritical.’

  ‘Hypocritical?’ At last she had his attention.

  ‘From what you’ve always told me, Christy was a gombeen politician whose only interests were his own. You believe Keith is cut from the same cloth. You loathe both of them so I’m trying to understand why you would write that obituary or attend his funeral.’

  ‘Christy Lewis’s obituary was written years ago by my father and filed away until the appropriate time. I just updated it. As for the funeral, if everyone allowed their personal feelings to stand in the way of respecting the dead, there’d be a lot of empty churches. What’s brought this on?’

  ‘What happened to make you dislike the Lewis’s so much? And Liam, too?’

  ‘That’s water under the bridge―’

  ‘You told me you were bullied when you were in your teens. Were Keith and Liam responsible?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘I want to understand. They were your friends―’

  ‘Just for a while.’

  ‘Obviously, they bullied you.’

  ‘Christ, Rachel, you make me sound like a wimp. So, I took a few wallops, some insults. The usual rite of passage. Can we drop the subject, please?’

  ‘Why did they treat you like that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a classic one, Rachel. Blame the victim, not the bullies.’

  She was a skilled interrogator, yet she was unable to find the right words to ask her husband why he felt such intense loathing for the two men who used to be his closest friends. All she could do was blurt out her dreaded suspicion.

  ‘Had it anything to do with Marianne Mooney?’