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

  Keith’s introduction was polished enough to suggest he had memorised every word the author had ever written. An expectant silence settled over the audience as the applause died away and he turned to leave the stage.

  ‘Stay,’ Babs said. ‘We need some gender balance here. Don’t you agree, Sisters?’

  The audience laughed obligingly and clapped. Keith bowed towards Babs and remained in position on the opposite podium.

  ‘I’ve spent weeks working on my speech,’ she began. ‘It’s filled with the most up-to-date research and statistics. But the bottom line is what matters and all you want to know from me is… are we on an unstoppable match towards equality? I can answer you with one word. Yes. We will get there in the end. But the path is bloody and, as this is a long march, I decided to tear up my speech and share with you my own story. My own long march. You won’t have read about it in any of my books. Nor have I spoken about it in the media or at conferences like this one today.’

  Davina pressed her fingers to her chest. This was not in the script and Keith, unable to move from his podium, seemed unsure whether he should be alarmed or enthralled. She looked around her. The audience were alert, leaning forward in their seats, reluctant to miss a word from the stage.

  ‘Sisters, you may wonder what gave rise to my desire to revisit a time in my life I believed I’d left behind forever,’ Babs continued. ‘I decided early on in my career that dwelling on periods of great unhappiness would hinder my way forward. It would consume my energy, slow my footsteps. I kept my own counsel about my past when I was questioned by journalists. Share a weakness with the media and it becomes a caul you can never remove. I lived by this dictum until recently when I received a letter. Short and to the point, it swept me back in time. Back towards memories that I believed I’d buried under the wealth of good fortune gifted to me. I was wrong. The rawness and pain were still there and, so, I met with the sender of that letter. Together, we revisited that stage of my life when it seemed as if my future would be dictated by others. Strangers who were incapable of caring whether or not they broke my heart. How many of you have read The Marianne Diary?’

  The snake in the grass, the cobra, asp, whatever, all loose and wriggling. Davina heard the audience’s collective gasp as hands shot up and a buzz of conversation broke out.

  ‘How many of you believe it was genuine?’ Babs silenced them with the question and hands were raised again. Not as many this time, but far more than the show of hands when she asked the non-believers to declare themselves.

  ‘‘I have to admit that I was not familiar with the diary,’ she said. ‘I’d no idea it had been found and was being blogged online. But I did not have to read it to be familiar with every word Marianne wrote during those bitter nights. She laid bare the horrifying conditions that existed in a mother and baby home called the House of Atonement. I was her friend. She helped me to escape and because of her courage I was able to keep my beloved son, Aaron. The woman who sent that letter to me is Marianne’s daughter. She is also the blogger who released the diary. Please give a round of applause for Adele Foyle, who is here to speak to you about her decision to release a story that began here in this lovely village twenty-five years ago.’

  How had she gained admittance without Davina’s knowledge? She had been missing from Brooklime for over a fortnight. Probably off visiting her fiancé, Larry said when Davina called to his house with her canvassers. She had left with an older man, whom she had introduced to him as Rory. More than that Larry could not say, except that she would be returning to Reedstown. And there she was, all swagger and defiance as she emerged from the wing of the stage and walked towards Babs Shannon, who moved aside to allow her the microphone.

  The audience broke into cheers and rose to their feet in a standing ovation as Adele raised a clenched fist. That first time, when she was loitering with intent outside The Lodge, Davina had known she was trouble and here it was, being played out in front of her helpless gaze. Keith stood to attention, unable to move. The video camera swept over the audience for its reaction. Julie, her glasses fogging with tears, took them off and clapped as loudly as anyone else. Davina brought her hands together and forced a smile. She must make it as radiant as possible, despite the fact that her mouth felt crushed with stones.

  ‘Thank you, Barbara,’ Adele said when the noise died down. ‘And thanks to all of you who responded so kindly to my mother’s story.’

  The audience was seated again, and silent. Davina longed to press her hands to her ears to drown out that hated voice. She did not want to hear how Adele’s search had brought her to Reedstown to find out the truth about her birth. Break-ins and a stolen online identity, guns and masks – she made Reedstown sound like one of those awful drug-ridden inner-city communities. She was convinced her make-up was running in rivulets down her face. Her palms had the same clammy feel. She tried to catch Keith’s eye. One glance from her should be enough to snap him to attention; he needed to end this farcical rout – but his fear was captured on the video screen, his furtive half-smile as he tried to decide what to do. It was only a matter of time before the audience noticed that he was shaking and using the podium as a support to hold him upright, but, for now, their attention was focused on Adele.

  ‘How many of you knew about the House of Atonement?’ she asked. ‘How many of you knew that babies were being sold to the highest bidder? Would this story have ever come to life if it had not been documented by a fifteen-year-old girl from Reedstown—’ Her voice broke and she seemed incapable of continuing. Babs took over the microphone and began to speak again.

  ‘You’ve heard Adele’s story but not its ending. She has lived all her life in the knowledge that her mother was dead. Reading her diary brought her to life in a way she had never anticipated and opened up a pathway to an amazing discovery. She has allowed me the privilege of introducing my second guest. My dearest friend, who shared those days with me and who, contrary to what we believed, is alive and here with us today to tell you her story. Please give a very warm welcome to Marianne Mooney.’

  Her arms outstretched in welcome, Babs turned again towards the wing of the stage. The woman who emerged to thunderous applause, walked hesitantly into the glare of the lights. A long dress floated around her ankles, cinched at the waist with a wide belt. Coppery-brown hair fell to her shoulders and the haunting familiarity of her hesitant smile caused Julie to utter a low moan. Keith’s expression suggested that he was standing in front of a speeding train with failed brakes and he was powerless to move from its path.

  Marianne Mooney faced the audience and gave a timid wave. The silence that followed the applause was tense with anticipation. That she was not used to speaking in public was obvious from her diffidence, but the words she used struck a chord with the audience. Her nervousness only added to her appeal as she told her story in simple, stark terms, leaving nothing out except the names of those who had assaulted her. She had left Ireland after her baby was born and moved to New Zealand where she lived in a house with many shadows. She was holding something back, a deeper story. Davina, as sensitive as a wind vane, sensed it but she could not dwell on speculation, only on the unfolding horror drama being played out on the platform that she, herself, had created.

  Marianne Mooney was coming to the end of her speech. ‘This past fortnight has been one of tremendous emotions,’ she said. ‘I’ve lived a quiet life since my baby was taken from me. All I ask is that the Gardai open my case and establish the identity of the men who came that night to Blake’s Hollow. The only evidence I can produce is my daughter’s DNA, which she is willing to provide.’

  The audience was on its feet again, applauding them as they walked from the stage, their arms entwined. They had sabotaged Davina’s conference and exposed the ugliness that Jack Bale had tried so hard to contain. How was she supposed to follow them and deliver her keynote address? Would her legs hold her steady as her husband welcomed her onto the stage? He had recovered his nerve and was rousingly
eloquence as he introduced her? Political nous, it was inbred in him. His hand was hot, sticky with guilt as he escorted her to the podium. The hours she had worked on her speech, honing it to perfection, but the audience refused to settle, their excited, giddy conversations forcing Keith to demand silence for the keynote speaker.

  Did anyone hear a word she uttered? Probably not, until she declared that once she was elected, she would lobby for a full inquiry into Marianne Mooney’s case. Keith sounded just as confident when he offered to do the same. The audience applauded at the end of her speech but did not spring spontaneously to its feet. Conversations were breaking out among them even before they stopped clapping, and there was only one topic being discussed.

  60 Rachel

  The gates to Holywell were open. Sunlight filtered through the leaves as Rachel drove up the wide, tree-lined avenue towards the entrance. She mounted the steps and rang the doorbell. After ringing it for the third ring and receiving no response, she wondered if Liam Thornton had lied to her yesterday when she phoned to arrange this meeting.

  She stood back from the door. Vaulted and studded with metal, it reminded her of a fortified church. The windows had the same arched design. She was about to try the doorbell one last time when he opened the door. He was always impeccably dressed but, today, he looked as though he had slept in his jogging pants and the T-shirt he wore was just as crumpled. His ruffled hair and stubble added to his dishevelled appearance.

  ‘What do you want?’ He appeared to have difficulty recognising her.

  ‘We spoke on the phone yesterday. You agreed to meet me this morning.’

  ‘Yes… yes… you must excuse me. My head is all over the place. I presume as you’re out of uniform this is not an official call?’

  ‘Correct. I’m back on duty but not this morning. I’d like to speak to you about a private matter. Are we likely to be interrupted?’

  ‘Highly unlikely. My daughter is in France and my wife has moved out.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘Indeed.’ He opened the door wider and made a sweeping gesture towards the spacious interior. ‘Come on in.’

  The ceiling soared above her as she followed him through a hall filled with religious artefacts. The room she entered was so darkly panelled that even the sun shining directly through the long windows was unable to penetrate the gloom. How had Julie endured this oppressive house? He gestured at her to sit down but he himself remained standing, his arms crossed, his back to the mantlepiece.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Rachel.’ He was emerging from whatever haze he had been in when she arrived. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good days, bad days.’

  ‘It’ll take time.’

  ‘Ah, yes, time the great healer.’

  He looked keenly at her. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to trade platitudes with me. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Were you at the conference?’ No need to name it. The publicity had been rolling ever since.

  ‘No, I didn’t attend,’ he said. ‘Seems I missed out on the resurrection from the dead.’

  ‘It was quite an outrageous performance,’ Rachel agreed. ‘But also extraordinary, don’t you agree? A child, that’s all she was, driven out of Reedstown and put into your mother’s care, goes into hiding for twenty-four years and is then reunited with her daughter.’

  ‘If you like melodrama, it is indeed extraordinary.’ He shifted position and unfolded his arms, put them behind his back. ‘I presume this conversation is leading somewhere?’

  ‘It’s leading to Bob and a question I’ve often wanted to ask you. What happened to the friendship you had with him when you were teenagers?’

  ‘Friendship…?’ He frowned. ‘That’s not how I remember it. I’m sure you’re aware that Bob was a loner with a drug problem. I’d very little contact with him in those days.’

  ‘I’ve been looking through some archival material in the Review—’

  ‘Congratulations by the way.’ He abruptly cut across her. ‘How does it feel to acquire a newspaper?’

  ‘The price I had to pay was too high.’

  ‘Poor Bob.’ He lifted himself on his toes, then settled his feet back on the floor. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  ‘I don’t believe he’s at peace, Liam. Can the dead rest easy when they go to the grave with their crimes unpunished?’

  ‘Is that a theological question or rhetorical?’ Once again, he swayed on his feet, his impatience obvious.

  ‘The photographs I found in the archives suggest that there was a close friendship between you, Keith and Bob. Yet my husband couldn’t bear to be in the same room as the two of you. Why was that?’

  ‘I was never privy to his thoughts. So, I’m afraid I can’t answer you.’

  ‘Was it because you and Keith set him up on a drugs charge?’

  ‘Set him up? He was caught in possession—’

  ‘Which either you or Keith supplied.’

  ‘I’m not sure why you’re here, Rachel, or what exactly you’re trying to imply. If you’d like to continue this conversation, then we will do so in the presence of my solicitor.’

  ‘Why not do so in the presence of Jack Bale?’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to leave—’

  ‘Did you know that he was in the House of Atonement on the night your mother died?’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He was there, Liam, and he was threatening Gloria. He was good at doing that, still is, as a matter of fact. But I’m sure you’re well aware of his tactics.’ She held an envelope out towards him. ‘It’s all in here. You don’t have to read it. You can shred it before you even open it. But then you’ll never know the truth about her death. That choice is entirely yours. I’ve left you a recording, also. I’m sure you’ll agree with me that it makes interesting listening.’

  When he made no effort to take the envelope from her, she laid it on top of a nest of tables and left.

  61 Davina

  When does the dust settle after it has been disturbed by a whirlwind? Three days since the conference and Marianne Mooney’s name was still on everyone’s lips. The fact that she shunned the limelight and had returned to her sick husband as soon as the conference was over meant nothing to an eager media. The entrails of Davina’s conference were being picked over by a flock of carrion crows. The story had gone beyond online prattle and was front-page news. A Miscarriage of Justice, the headline in the Reedstown Review screamed at Davina. A photograph of a cigarette packet appeared on the front page. Twenty-five years old and found at the scene of the crime, the news item beside it claimed. Shane Reagan was quoted. He called it ‘his talisman’. Since when was it established that a crime had been committed, Davina raged. How had the fake diary achieved biblical status when it had been so thoroughly discredited?

  On page three of the Reedstown Review she saw another headline.

  Keith Lewis China Trade Mission a Success.

  The feature was a puff piece about how one of the delegates had received a substantial contract from a major Chinese retailer. The delegate praised Keith for introducing her to a whole new market. Only a few days ago, Davina would have welcomed such publicity. Now, she was filled with the urge to set fire to the glass edifice that Rachel Darcy had inherited. She crumpled the paper and threw it into the litter bin.

  Jack Bale rang her again. She cancelled the call. He was apoplectic since the conference. His blood pressure must be through the roof but there was nothing Davina could do to bring it down. He must wait until the by-election was over before making contact with her. The promise she had made at the conference had no substance, she assured him. He refused to be mollified. For the first time since she’d known him, he was afraid. This did nothing to ease her own panic. Was it normal, she wondered, to hide fear behind a mask? Would that mask transform her fear into confidence and, if so, which was real? Which one could she trust? Jack rang again. He was like a bear at her shoulders. He was unsheathing his claws and the longer
she kept him waiting, the sharper they would be. Whether she liked it or not, she had to risk meeting him tonight before she went canvassing.

  62 Julie

  Julie’s face had healed, as she had known it would. The swelling around her eyes had finally gone down and she no longer gasped each time she drew a deep breath. Overall, she was lucky. Her husband could have killed her. She had sensed it in him. The repressed desire he had kept under control for so long finally finding release. Stephanie had been the pacifying influence that had kept him stable, allowed him to work off his demons on the tennis and squash courts and in the business bearpit. This evening, keeping to his regular routine, Liam would do violence with a squash ball and racquet at the Reedstown Recreational and Leisure Centre. Julie, who had been staying in the Loyvale Hotel, had an hour left to remove the most essential of her possessions before he returned, sated and victorious.

  She had attended the Unstoppable March conference. Dark glasses had hidden most of the damage to her eyes but once Babs Shannon started talking, she had taken them off, and wept openly. Davina, who had been sitting beside her had slumped forward, as if her spine had buckled. She had recovered quickly and joined in the applause but the glance she directed at Keith had a laser-like intensity.

  How many men would undertake the DNA challenge and rule themselves out of an investigation, if one was ever organised? It wouldn’t matter if the entire male population of Reedstown came forward to the police with blood and spittle. No one would test positive because Adele’s father was resting in Reedstown Cemetery. This realisation had dawned on Julie when she saw her at Bob’s funeral. Standing in the background, an inconspicuous mourner, her face awash with tears.