In My Mother's Name: A totally addictive and emotional psychological thriller Page 9

  Strictly speaking, calling it a ‘cold case’ was incorrect. The term was usually applied when a case that had remained unsolved for years was reopened. This happened when vital, new evidence had been received or advances in forensics made it possible to begin a fresh investigation. But Adele Foyle was claiming that there had never been an investigation into the rape on Marianne Mooney. Jack Bale was the sergeant then. He had left behind an unblemished reputation when he retired and his handover of responsibility to Rachel had been seamless.

  Over the following days, as she worked through the files, she could see that his record-keeping was impeccable as well. Yes, there had been issues within the Garda station. Occasional staff problems, cases that remained unsolved, but, always, the facts about how these challenges were handled had been logged in such painstaking detail that it would be impossible to question them. A crime of the magnitude described in Marianne’s diary would have been logged, statements taken. Shane Reagan, for instance – no mention of his name on any file. Where were the photographs displaying Marianne’s injuries, the procedures that had been followed when she allegedly stumbled into the Garda station? Searching systematically, Rachel was unable to find anything remotely similar to the distressing diary entries she had read. Her mind shied away from the possibility that such a crime had never been investigated but, if that was true, then Adele Foyle had handed her a timebomb.

  The brutish personality described in the diary was a stranger to her, yet Marianne’s depiction of Jack Bale confirmed her own instinctive reaction to the former sergeant on the first occasion they met. He hadn’t wanted to retire but had been forced to do so when he reached the age of sixty. His handshake on being introduced to Rachel, his grip crushing her fingers for a fraction longer than necessary, had warned her that he hid a darker temperament behind his officious manner. It was this memory that triggered an uneasiness in her. Only one thing to do. These days, he spent most of his time fishing on the river but he was always helpful with information whenever Rachel contacted him with a query. She would have to tread with care around his sensitivities but questions had to be asked and answers given if she was to disprove the extraordinary claims written in the diary.

  A pair of rubber boots had been left inside the porch, along with a fishing tackle container and a rod. The front door was open and Jack, when he stomped up the hall, still had his hat on, his forehead shaded by the collapsed brim. As always, that hard handshake, as if it was necessary to establish his dominance. She had arrived at the right time, he said. Three speckled trout, gutted and seasoned with thyme and oregano, were splayed on a chopping board. She must share his catch with him. He silenced her protests and waved her into a chair. The innards of the trout glistened in a chrome dish, their blood drying on the blade of a knife. He squeezed lemon juice over the filleted trout, added crushed garlic and a dash of olive oil, his attention focused on the dish he was preparing. He had put on weight since his retirement, his ample stomach straining against his jumper. The remnants of his grey hair had been dragged into a ponytail, a change from his habitual short back and sides. The effect reminded her, unpleasantly, of a rat’s tail. He flipped the fish onto two heated plates and removed a salad from the fridge. His kitchen was spotless, no mess. The innards of the trout were transferred to the back garden to be devoured by a hungry cat.

  ‘So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ He sat heavily into the chair and slathered butter onto a baguette. ‘Not having trouble at the station, I hope?’

  ‘No trouble, Jack.’ The trout was delicious, the tang of lemon infused with garlic, the pink flesh falling cleanly from the seared skin. ‘I’m hoping you can help me out with some information from way back.’

  ‘How far back?’

  ‘Twenty-five years or thereabouts?’

  ‘As it happened under my watch, I’ll remember.’

  ‘It concerns an assault on a young girl. A very serious assault if what I’ve heard has any credibility.’

  He was immediately alert, his forehead wrinkling in shock. ‘What exactly did you hear?’

  ‘That she was subjected to a gang-rape.’ Such a harsh resonance when Rachel spoke the word aloud, and he paused, his fork suspended in mid-air.

  ‘Who made such an accusation?’ He brought the fork to his mouth, seemingly unaware that the morsel of fish had fallen back onto his plate, and winced as the prongs clanged against his teeth.

  ‘I didn’t say it was an accusation, Jack. At this point, it’s merely an allegation. I’m trying to establish if this claim has any validity.’

  He broke the crust on the baguette and chewed slowly before asking, ‘The name of the alleged victim?’

  ‘Marianne Mooney. I’ve checked back over the records but I can’t find any reference to her or that such a crime was ever reported and investigated.’

  ‘That’s your answer then. It has no validity. But that’s not surprising. I knew Marianne Mooney.’ He split her name into distinct syllables, nodding as he spoke. ‘She was little more than a girl, as you say, but that didn’t stop her being as promiscuous as…’ He paused, as if searching for a sensitive description, then threw his hands outwards in exasperation. ‘Let’s just say that young Marianne Mooney wasn’t behind the bush when it came to putting herself about, if you get my meaning. She was the scourge of her mother, a deeply religious woman, or so we believed. But that’s a story for another day. This allegation? What pit has that sprung from?’

  ‘That’s confidential, Jack. And it could be a mischievous claim―’

  ‘Could be?’ His ruddy complexion deepened.

  ‘This girl, Marianne―’ Nothing in her demeanour revealed Rachel’s nervousness.

  ‘Was a little trollop who, to no one’s surprise, was pregnant by the time she was fifteen,’ he brusquely interrupted her. ‘The lad in question didn’t want to know. He’d planned on going to university and fatherhood would have put a stop to his gallop, especially as the girl was underage. He could have been in serious trouble for – how shall I phrase it delicately – interfering with a minor. Such a crime could have landed him inside a prison cell instead of some fancy university lecture hall.’ He flexed his fingers, opening and closing them into fists.

  ‘That’s what would have happened if Rosemary Mooney had had her way,’ he went on. ‘She had a reputation to uphold. All set to charge young Shane Reagan with rape. She calmed down quickly enough when she realised what would be involved, especially as Carrie Reagan, the lad’s mother, swore the sex was consensual. She claimed her son had been fooled into believing the girl was older than fifteen. But I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. The kid was taken in her prime, God rest her soul.’

  Unable to stomach his pious platitudes, Rachel stopped all pretence of eating. ‘Why was Rosemary Mooney’s accusation never recorded?’

  ‘What was there to report? Do you note every crazy, insignificant event that crosses your desk?’

  ‘Insignificant?’

  ‘Two kids having unprotected sex. A mother furious because she’s prematurely going to become a grandmother. When the dust settles, that’s exactly what it was. An insignificant event that I never recorded because no charges were ever made. I checked out the location. Quite a nice little hideaway they’d made for themselves. Lay the blanket on the ground, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Where was this hideaway?’

  ‘Some ruin out by Blake’s Hollow. It’s gone now, levelled to the ground a few years back to build the shopping centre. The lad’s mother was Australian and she decided to return with the lad to her home country before Rosemary Mooney changed her mind about the rape accusation. However, there is something on record that you can check.’

  The cat, having finished the innards, sat on the outside window ledge and fixed Rachel with a green, unblinking gaze.

  ‘You’re a smart woman, Rachel. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be walking in my shoes. Like me, you know when information has meat on it or what is bare bone. Marianne Mooney si
gned a statement. Check it out when you go back to the station.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I able to find it?’

  ‘Rosemary Mooney begged me to keep a lid on the whole fiasco and not bring any more shame on her daughter. I obliged her and filed it under the name Blake’s Hollow. I looked upon it as a form of insurance in case Carrie Reagan ever decided to challenge the evidence. Needless to say, that has never happened.’

  He jutted his bottom lip. Oily. Rachel looked away. She had absolutely no reason to believe he was lying. The guards working the station at that time had retired, been promoted or died. She had met with an inspector, who had been a young guard in Reedstown when this crime was supposed to have been committed. She respected the inspector’s integrity and had no reason to disbelieve him when he said he would definitely remember if such a traumatic event had ever been reported. But what if he had not been on duty on the night the crime occurred? Could it possibly have been hidden from him? A clean-up operation carried out by Jack Bale for reasons best known to himself? He was watching her closely, his eyes narrowed, as if he sensed her thoughts, her doubts.

  ‘Are you questioning my methods, Sergeant?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m doing my job, Jack, which is to try to establish whether or not a rape occurred.’

  ‘Well, legally speaking, a rape did occur, whether or not the sex was two-way traffic, if you get my meaning. But gang-rape, that’s a whole different kettle of fish. I’m asking you again, who made this accusation?’

  ‘Marianne Mooney.’

  He studied her for an instant. ‘Speaking from the grave, then, was she?’

  ‘In a way. Words live on after death. Marianne kept a diary in which she outlined details of her alleged assault. Three unknown assailants were supposedly involved.’

  If she had hoped to startle him, she was mistaken. He cleared his plate, swabbing the last of the baguette in the juices.

  ‘I’m glad you said “supposedly”. This diary, has it come into your possession?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m aware of its existence.’

  ‘All kids keep diaries. I’m sure you had one yourself. Did you usually write the truth in it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always so honest. No wonder you joined the force.’ He laughed and scraped the remains of the trout on Rachel’s plate into a bowl. He opened the window and left the bowl on the window ledge where the contents were quickly devoured by the cat. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who’s in possession of this diary?’

  ‘You know I can’t do that. My reason for coming here was to speak to you unofficially and see if the allegation contained in it had any validity. Were you aware that Marianne Mooney stayed in a mother and baby home run by Gloria Thornton?’

  ‘I heard that, right enough. A well-run place, I believe. Not like those laundries.’

  ‘Yet she died there.’

  ‘A tragedy that could easily have been averted if she hadn’t been so reckless about her own safety.’

  The certainty in his tone, his bullish stare, as if daring her to challenge him, sickened her. She pressed her hand against her ribcage to control an involuntary heave. She would achieve nothing by continuing this conversation.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Jack.’ She stood up and held out her hand to him. ‘Thanks for the meal. I hadn’t realised you were a cordon bleu.’

  ‘There’s much you don’t know about me, Rachel.’ He smiled broadly as he grasped her hand between his own. ‘How’s that husband of yours keeping?’

  ‘He’s well. Busy as always.’

  ‘You’ve been the cloud in his silver lining. But I suppose you know that.’

  ‘He’s also lined my cloud with silver.’

  ‘Ah, but the difference is that you were delighted to move to Reedstown and take over my station. Bob, on the other hand, had to be dragged kicking and screaming back here from New York. Did he ever tell you why he left Reedstown in such a hurry?’

  ‘He moved abroad to gain experience.’

  ‘A noble reason for leaving, right enough.’ He smirked, as if her reply amused him. ‘Pass on my regards to him. We go back a long way, me and Bobby Molloy.’ He sang her husband’s name to the air of ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. ‘Way, way back,’ he added. ‘Be sure and tell him that now.’

  The cat had made its way to the front of the house and was sitting sphinx-like on the gatepost. Jack Bale had that same waiting stillness about him as he stood in his doorway and waited for Rachel to reverse her car and drive away.

  She found the file easily. An admission that Shane Reagan had sex with a minor. She hated the language. It bore no relationship to the love story Rachel had read, yet there was no mistaking the young girl’s signature at the bottom of the statement. One sheet of paper that denied everything she had written in her diary.

  Bob had made their evening meal and set the table on the patio for two. She helped herself to a portion of lasagne and poured a large glass of wine. Time to detach from her job and be in the moment with her husband as they relaxed in the garden they had created together. She was tempted to tell him about Adele Foyle’s visit and reveal her true identity. No, she decided. That was a confidential interview, as was her interview with Jack. Despite being married to a newspaperman, she had to follow procedure. Her stomach heaved when she forced a forkful of lasagne into her mouth and gulped it down with wine. The trout… Thinking about it added to her queasiness. She touched her forehead and was surprised to feel a film of sweat on her hairline. Bob’s phone rang. He moved from the patio to take the call and she used the excuse to clear away the dishes. His expression was troubled as she walked past. Problems at the news desk. It was always thus, or else she was the one under pressure, both of them bound by the demands of their careers. How they had ever managed to make time to fall in love was a mystery but there was nothing mysterious about their feelings for each other.

  Rachel had not been looking for romance when she was transferred to Reedstown. Earlier ventures along its brambled path had made her wary of its sting but everything changed when, at the age of thirty-nine, she met Bob Molloy. He was also in a stage of transition after his return from New York. Still single, without baggage, attractive, kind and in love with her, he seemed too perfect to be true. If she had been inclined to starry-eyed romanticism, her feet would not have touched the ground in the early months of their relationship. The glow lasted and they were married a year after that first meeting.

  Adele Foyle was to be married soon. The ring on her engagement finger had glinted when she picked up her mother’s diary from Rachel’s desk. A sparkler, too flashy for Rachel, who wore a simple solitaire. She had been wearing it for three years now. Weird that it still felt strange on her finger. Not that she wore it often. She preferred her fingers unadorned when she was on duty.

  22 Rachel

  No case to answer. Adele should not have been surprised. To expect the truth to slot smoothly into place was foolish; yet she had hoped the sergeant’s enquiries would force open a wedge. One that would allow in enough light for an investigation to begin. Whatever her personal feelings were, Sergeant Darcy hid them behind an impassive expression as she explained that no evidence had been found to support the claims in Marianne’s diary.

  ‘Even if there was irrefutable evidence and we knew the identity of the perpetrators, the fact that your mother has been dead for the past twenty-four years puts paid to any chance of this crime being investigated,’ she explained. ‘Usually, when a victim dies then so does their evidence.’

  ‘Are you telling me my mother made this up?’ Adele hunched over the desk, her shoulders bowed. ‘She was brought to this Garda station on the night she was raped. Did you speak to the priest who wanted to bring her to hospital?’

  ‘Father Breen was transferred from Reedstown in the mid-nineties and left the priesthood shortly afterwards. From what I’ve been able to find out, he lives abroad but no one seems to know where he’s located.’

  �
�What about Sergeant Bale?’

  ‘Yes, we spoke. He was adamant that the crime your mother described never took place. He insists that Shane Reagan was the father…’ She stopped, as if she was aware of the impact of her words on Adele. ‘Jack believes that Shane is your father,’ she continued in a softer tone. ‘A reluctant one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No…no.’ Adele recoiled away from her. ‘My mother wanted so much for Shane to be my father but it wasn’t him. Jack Bale is lying. He’s trying to cover up for those who were responsible? Marianne wouldn’t make up something so terrible…she wouldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be unkind but you’ve no idea what your mother would or wouldn’t do.’ Sergeant Darcy was adamant. ‘She was underage and she admits in her diary that your grandmother had forbidden her to see this boy. She was obviously distraught over finding herself pregnant at such a young age.’

  ‘Wrong, Sergeant. She was distraught because she was gang-raped.’

  Sergeant Darcy slid a sheet of paper across her desk towards her. ‘Technically speaking, Shane Reagan could have been accused of raping a minor, even if the sex was consensual. Marianne signed a statement. This signature matches the writing in her diary.’ The sergeant’s tone, clipped with authority now, prevented Adele from interrupting her. ‘He was committing a crime and your mother could have invented this story to protect him. As you can see, it was witnessed by Jack Bale and another guard.’

  Adele stared at the sheet of paper the sergeant had placed before her. The statement was brief yet succinct. It accused Shane Reagan of rape and of threatening to kill Marianne if she reported him to the Gardai. The writing wavered before Adele’s eyes, her disbelief giving way to confusion as she read the statement again. The sergeant waited until she was finished, her posture sympathetic yet detached. No doubt she was used to people’s beliefs and hopes being shattered by irrefutable evidence.