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

  She reached for Adele. ‘Give her to me,’ she shouted and her eyes were like big, empty holes swallowing me up. But she wasn’t looking at me, only at Adele. I was just her mule, her penitent, and she wanted the cargo I was carrying. I pushed her away with my free arm. I never knew I had such strength. Mother strength, that’s what it was. It knocked her off balance. I never looked back when she fell. I didn’t care if she was hurt. I could hear the flames roaring. They had reached the south wing and the whole house sounded as if it was cracking and breaking up around me. I thought she would follow but she never came out.

  Malachi went back in again to find her and when he came out again I thought the person behind him must be Mother Gloria. I was wrong.

  Sergeant Bale’s bulging eyes and hammering questions belonged to IT. What was he doing in Atonement? I’d no time to run before he grabbed me and forced me to stand in front of him. He told me how I’d killed Mother Gloria. She’d banged her head on the iron fender in the main hall when I pushed her. I’d run off and left her bleeding, dying, and now she was dead. For such a crime I’d spend the rest of my life in jail. My baby would be reared by strangers. She would never know my name or that her mother was a murderer.

  That was when I saw Mam in the crowd. She’d arrived at last. I broke free from him and my heart was a magnet drawing me towards her. I was crying and trying to explain that I wanted to keep Adele. I don’t remember if she smiled or even if she spoke. All I remember are her arms. How steady they were when she lifted Adele from me and kissed her face. Everything was mad, the burning house and the fire brigade arriving with sirens screaming and the crew pushing everyone out of the courtyard and Sergeant Bale grabbing me again like I was a dangerous criminal trying to escape, which I was, well, not dangerous, just mad with fear. Malachi hit him. I don’t know what he used but it knocked Sergeant Bale out. He dragged me down with him when he fell but Malachi pulled me up and told me to run. Mam was crying and holding Adele so tight I was afraid she’d strangle her.

  The sergeant was trying to get back up on his feet when Malachi hit him again. The fire engine headlights were flashing off the trees as I ran through the gates. I had bare feet, still in my nightdress, but I never felt the stones, the thistles or the briars.

  They gave me shelter at the farm. Dear Winnie. Fr Breen came when she rang him and took me away. I hid in his house for two days and then he brought me to the airport. He has promised hand on heart to find Adele. He will check every highway and byway where Mam could be hiding. She’s been accused of robbery but Fr Breen says it’s a stitch-up and I’m to stop fretting. When he finds them, he will take them both here to live with me.

  I’ve stopped looking for the boat with the sergeant. It was a silly notion. The only boat I want to see is the ferry bringing Fr Breen, Mam and Adele to me. Sometimes I lose hope. Mr Maclure says it’s a dangerous thing to despair. Despair leaves room for dangerous thoughts to creep in… like yesterday.

  Would I have jumped into the ocean if he had not been there? He never made a sound as he followed me from his house to the cliff. How did he know that the battering waves were calling to me? I could hear them so clearly. Murderer… murderer. They were telling me that losing my baby was not enough punishment for the crime of murder. Mr Maclure said the sea sings siren songs and I’m never to listen to it again. Ever.

  Part 5

  53 Adele

  Jack Bale was unable to hide his surprise when he opened his front door and saw them standing outside.

  ‘I heard you were back in town.’ He ignored Adele and spoke directly to Shane. ‘I’m amazed you have the nerve to show your face around here.’

  ‘After all this time, I would have expected a warmer welcome, Jack. Aren’t you going to invite us in?’

  ‘Why the fuck should I do that?’

  ‘We have information that should be of interest to you.’

  ‘We can discuss it on your doorstep, if you’d prefer?’ said Adele.

  He appeared to notice her for the first time, yet she knew her presence was an itch to him, had been from the first time they met. He hesitated, his colour rising, then shrugged. He closed the front door behind them but moved no further than the hall.

  ‘So, enlighten me.’ He thrust his face towards her. ‘And make it fast.’

  ‘I want to know why you were in the House of Atonement on the night it burned down?’ Adele handed the photograph to him. He would find it impossible to deny the evidence, his strong features recognisable since Shane had clarified the image.

  ‘The House of what…?’ His Adam’s apple bobbed violently. ‘I haven’t an earthly clue what you’re taking about.’

  ‘You can’t deny that you were there on the night it burned down,’ said Shane. ‘Your link to Gloria Thornton will be one of the main questions Adele intends to explore in her documentary.’

  ‘I was visiting her.’ He coughed to clear his throat and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘Gloria was a friend. A good neighbour when she wasn’t on the road doing God’s work. Do you have any further questions?’

  ‘We certainly do.’ Shane pressed his finger on the image of Marianne. ‘I’m sure you recognise her.’

  He took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and held them up to the light, as if searching for smears. Playing for time before he examined the photograph. ‘No, I haven’t a clue who she is.’

  ‘She’s the girl you destroyed.’ Shane’s hands were clenched as he strained towards him. ‘Marianne was supposed to have died before that night, yet there she is. What happened to her?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know?’ He met Adele’s gaze and looked quickly away. ‘You’re supposed to be the one who’s doing the research.’

  ‘My research was destroyed by thugs,’ she said. ‘But I don’t need to research her name. It was Marianne Mooney. She was my mother.’

  His stunned expression was fleeting enough to have been imagined but he was unable to prevent the colour draining from his cheeks.

  ‘I always knew you were a deceitful bitch,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve caused nothing but trouble since you came here with your fake identity and lies. How’s your thieving grandmother? Still alive, is she? Ready for interrogation?’

  ‘My grandmother is dead. You can’t touch her now. And you still haven’t told us how you came to be in this photograph?’

  ‘I was in Inisada to advise Gloria Thornton, who contacted me when she discovered that the person whom she trusted most was a thief.’ His confidence was returning, his voice hardening. He tapped the photograph, his mockery aimed directly at Adele. ‘Rosemary Mooney was clever enough to disappear without trace and take you with her. As for your mother…’ He hesitated and frowned as he surveyed Adele from beneath his lizard eyelids. ‘She was running from an even bigger crime. But I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Shane reached her hand and squeezed it. ‘This photograph suggests otherwise.’

  ‘The kid’s dead. If you thought she died before the fire, you obviously have the wrong information. Wait here and I’ll prove it to you.’

  He turned abruptly from them and climbed the stairs. They listened to his heavy tread on the landing, a door slamming. Adele felt her optimism ebbing away, her butterfly hope fading.

  ‘Liam Thornton made the same accusation about my grandmother,’ she whispered to Shane as the purposeful sounds from upstairs continued. ‘He said she embezzled the sodality’s funds—’

  Shane’s warning pressure on her hand silenced her. Jack Bale was returning.

  ‘Read it.’ He handed a document to Adele. ‘This one has the correct date.’

  Staring at the thick, black writing, Adele realised it was a death certificate with her mother’s name on it. Her death was recorded three days after the fire. She was unable to look at Shane as she handed the certificate to him.

  ‘Your mother has been dead a long time and that man standing beside you put her in her coffin,’ Jack Bale declared. ‘Cons
ent may be the in-word at the moment but no matter what she wrote in her diary, Shane Reagan was responsible for having carnal knowledge of a minor.’

  ‘You lying, evil swine.’ The narrow hall in which they stood seemed too fragile to contain Shane’s anger. ‘How come you’re in possession of Marianne’s death certificate?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘I’m making it my business. Answer my question. Who gave it to you?’

  ‘The priest,’ he replied. ‘The one who left. What was it they were called in the day? A spoiled priest or something like that? Anyway, the religious life all got too much for him so he skedaddled off and left his dog collar behind.’

  ‘Father Breen?’ Hope faded from Shane’s face and Adele, watching his expression change, whimpered then fell silent. Time enough to mourn her dream when she was alone.

  ‘That’s the name right enough,’ said Jack. ‘I took a copy of it from him when he showed it to me. Nothing like having evidence to counteract lies. Now fuck off out of my house.’ He glared at Adele. ‘I’m sorry you never knew your mother but it saved you a lot of heartache in the long run. My advice to you is to forget about that documentary and take the next flight out of here. You too, Mr Reagan. The girl is dead. Let her rest in peace.’

  Shane would not allow her to drive back to Brooklime. She was too emotional, he said as he sat behind the steering wheel, the tendons on his neck stretched like wires about to snap.

  Two days after their encounter with Jack Bale, Shane left on his next assignment. South Sudan, this time. He had no idea how long he would be away. He would continue his efforts to make contact with the former priest. Adele dropped him off at the airport and drove away before he saw her tears. She had lost one father to a bullet. Had she found the perfect father figure just to lose him to another war zone?

  Rory Breen. It had been easy enough for Adele to discover his first name. After leaving the priesthood he had worked abroad on famine relief. The agency where he had volunteered was unable to provide her with any up-to-date information, apart from the fact that his last posting was in Darfur during the early noughties. Adele wondered if he was dead. He had worked in dangerous places, disease-ridden and war-torn communities.

  She should leave Reedstown now. She was tired chasing rainbows that shimmered then faded, and when she had almost forgotten their sheen, another one appeared to taunt her by demanding that she should check out one last line of enquiry. This time it was the letter from Winnie O’Donnell with Barbara’s address.

  Dear Barbara,

  Winnie O’Donnell was kind enough to give me your address. I hope you don’t mind me writing to you. Marianne Mooney was my mother. I believe you knew her when you were staying at the House of Atonement. I found her diary and she mentioned you many times, always with great fondness.

  I’m a documentary maker and am hoping to make a documentary about her time there. Would it be possible to meet and talk to you about her? I can fly to London any time that suits you.

  I hope I am not stirring unhappy memories by contacting you and would be grateful for any help you can give me.

  Best wishes,

  Adele Foyle.

  My dear Adele,

  I’m so glad you contacted me. I loved Marianne. She was such a fey and gentle child, and courageous, also. Thanks to her bravery I was able to escape that awful place and live a fulfilled, happy life.

  But a grievous wrong was done to her and her death was a tragedy. I’ve never stopped mourning her. I could fill pages with my memories of her but, instead, I will await your arrival. Please come and see me as soon as possible. We have much to discuss.

  Sincerely,

  Barbara

  54 Adele

  It was Daniel who finally lifted her from the belief that she had hit a wall and could go no further in her search for Rory Breen. He rang shortly after Adele’s return from London. Her time with Barbara and her family had been as wonderful as she had anticipated but nothing prepared her for her reaction when Daniel contacted her. How could she have forgotten the joy she had always felt whenever she heard his voice on the phone?

  ‘Shane Reagan gave me your new phone number,’ he said before she could speak. ‘Promise you won’t hang up until we’ve had a chance to talk.’

  ‘I promise,’ she replied. ‘But why on earth did Shane contact you?’

  She knew the answer, of course. Fatherly interference. He had joked about it before he left. Love was as important as blood when it came to bonding and he was everything she had imagined a father would be. And that, it seemed, included putting his nose into her business and trying to sort out her confused and broken heart.

  ‘Those photographs that were sent to you,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was afraid you’d lie… deny everything.’

  ‘There was nothing to deny. You should have trusted me. They were crowd shots taken at that conference. Madison Fox sent them. She edited out the other people. Shane could see that when you showed them to him. You could too, if you’d cared to look.’

  ‘I did look.’ But, of course, that was untrue. Jealousy had blinded her to any other explanation, even Shane’s insistence that they had been photoshopped.

  ‘He told me about the attack. How could you not let me know, Adele? I would have come to you immediately.’

  ‘I tried to ring you after it happened.’

  ‘A private number. I saw it on my screen. I thought it was one of those scams. He said you also rang me at work on another occasion.’

  ‘Daniel, it doesn’t matter—’

  ‘It does matter. I checked back. Your call was logged but your message had been deleted. Only one person could do that.’

  ‘Madison?’

  ‘I confronted her.’ He sounded grim, purposeful. ‘It wasn’t pleasant. The upshot is that she’s left Greendene. However, that’s not why I rang. Shane said you’d received information that led you to believe your mother could be alive. I’m so sorry to hear you finally received confirmation that she died shortly after you were born.’

  Unable to speak, she could only nod.

  ‘Are you still there, Adele?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘I’ve found out something that might help your search for that ex-priest. Greendene has a wide reach and I’ve tapped into their global contacts. I discovered a Rory Breen who helped in a clean-up operation when Greendene had an oil spill in 2007. Sounds like it could be him. I’ve nothing more up-to-date but I’ll send you a link with his details, if you’ll give me your new email address.’

  ‘Thank you, Daniel.’ It seemed such a stiff response but it was either that or falling into a wave of emotion that was too turbulent for her to handle. He sounded just as formal when he thanked her for the return of his engagement ring.

  ‘‘There was no need to send it back,’ he said. ‘It was my gift to you.’

  ‘Daniel…’ She faltered, afraid to continue yet knowing she must. ‘I’m sorry I caused you so much pain.’

  ‘You were going through a hell of a time—’

  ‘But I allowed myself to lose sight of us.’

  ‘I should have been more understanding.’

  ‘You were understanding. I never stopped loving you or wishing I was with you. But I was possessed…’ She was unable to continue but it didn’t matter because his own voice was sweeping towards her, telling her how much he missed her, yearned for her, loved her to distraction. And the wave she had feared was no longer threatening as it swelled and swept them back to a familiar shore.

  Rory Breen’s C.V. revealed the history of a man who had taken many turns in his life. He was part of a specialist response team who travelled to locations affected by a natural catastrophe or threatened by an oil spill. His last known address was in New York. Adele rang the number and was informed by an automated voice that it was no longer in use. Despite his best efforts, Daniel was unable to find any further information on him.

  Th
ey were constantly in touch, unable to stop talking, planning their future together, that hurtful separation reminding them how easy it was to let happiness slip carelessly through their fingers.

  55 Rachel

  The pavement outside Rachel’s house was free of journalists yet she ran each morning as if they were still tracking her. She took the route along the river and crossed the narrow, potholed bridge that spanned the Little Loy. The water level was returning to normal, the riverbed no longer visible. She ran like a machine, using pain and endurance as propulsion, but the exercise energised her and convinced her she should return to duty. The feeling evaporated as soon as she returned home. Her energy dipped then and the loneliness that took over was equal only to her despair.

  At the end of her compassionate leave she had sought permission to have it extended again. She was unable to bear the thought of investigating other crimes when the mystery surrounding Bob’s murder remained unsolved. The shadow of suspicion that had hung over the circumstances of his death had been removed and the conclusion that he had been unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time was once again judged to be the only reason for such a senseless killing. The cliché Rachel had used so often in her line of work now carried a bitter resonance every time she heard it repeated.

  One afternoon, when she returned from a run, Adele was sitting on her garden wall.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour,’ she said. ‘Why do you never answer your phone these days?’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘I didn’t know you were trying to contact me.’

  ‘Well, I was.’ She jumped down from the wall and followed her into the kitchen. ‘When are you going back to work?’

  ‘I’m still on compassionate leave.’

  ‘Rachel, you can’t outrun your grief. You need to engage your brain as well as your body.’