by Isaac, Jane;
CHAPTER 18
Bracken Hall was an imposing country home with a sandstone frontage, set amid five acres of manicured gardens. Gravel crunched beneath her tyres as Helen swept up the driveway. According to Blane, Maeve McKinney, Sinead’s mother, had been living there for four years. Surely that was long enough for the staff to get to know the family.
The nursing home sat majestically on the peak of a hill. Hanging baskets stocked with red begonias beginning to burst their buds hung at intervals along the frontage.
Helen’s shoes squeaked on the tiled flooring as she entered the lobby. The original wooden entrance doors had been replaced with electric glass ones, but there were still elements of the traditional features in the carved stonework around the windows, the high ceilings and cornices that circulated the chandelier. Oak panels covered the bottom half of the walls, the top section adorned with a mixture of Constable prints and countryside scenes. It looked more like a high-class hotel than a nursing home.
A suited receptionist looked up as she entered.
Helen introduced herself and held up her badge.
‘Ah, yes. You’re here to see Maeve,’ the receptionist said and smiled. ‘It was me you spoke to earlier.’ She passed across the visitors’ book, asked her to sign in. ‘As I said, I’m not sure how much help we will be. Maeve is in stage nine Alzheimer’s. She’s not aware of her surroundings. Doesn’t even recognise her family, let alone staff or visitors.’
‘Has she been told of Sinead’s passing?’
‘Blane’s mother phoned Barbara, the owner, first thing this morning. She was told as soon as she woke.’ The receptionist pressed a hand to her chest. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard. Sinead was a great girl, always with a big smile on her face and a cheery word.’
‘You knew her well?’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew her well. We passed the time of day, moaned about the weather. She had such a lovely way about her, and gorgeous children too.’ Her face fell. ‘Poor little mites.’
‘When did Sinead last visit?’
‘Let me see.’ The receptionist retrieved the visitors’ book and worked back through the names listed. ‘Looks like she came in on Tuesday with the children,’ she said eventually.
‘And before Tuesday?’
She flicked back a few pages. ‘Last Friday.’
‘Nothing in between?’ That didn’t seem to concur with Yvette’s account of Sinead visiting daily.
‘Not according to the visitors’ book, though we do have a problem with our regular families. Sometimes they forget to sign in. And Sinead came and went a lot. Natalia probably knows her best. She’s been caring for Maeve for almost a year.’
‘Where can I find Natalia?’
‘I’m afraid she’s on leave. She finished on Tuesday for a week. I’m sure the manager will be able to give you her contact details.’
‘Okay, that would be helpful. Sinead made a call here, at 9.45 a.m. yesterday morning. Do you know what it was about? Did she speak to her mother?’
The receptionist hesitated. ‘I don’t remember it specifically. But she phoned here most mornings, to check on her mother, see if she’d had a good night, that sort of thing. Maeve can’t take calls herself any more. Barbara, the owner, might be able to tell you more. I’ll give her a call, let her know you’re here.’
Helen thanked the receptionist and moved across to an oversized leather sofa, resisting the temptation to spoil the display of magazines fanned out on the coffee table to the side.
She retrieved her phone, tapped out a quick text to Pemberton, telling him where she was, and was pocketing it when a woman in a loose navy shift dress approached. Her attire was smart yet practical, with navy tights and low heels. Greying hair was pulled away from her face and coiffed into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
‘Barbara Williams.’ The woman extended a hand covered in liver spots. ‘I’m the day manager today. I’m also the owner.’ Helen shook her hand. ‘We were so sorry to hear about Sinead. Dreadful affair.’ She shuddered. ‘Why don’t you come down to my office?’
‘I’d like to see Maeve first, please.’
The manager looked slightly taken aback. ‘Of course. You do know the state of Maeve’s illness?’
‘I do. I’ll be brief,’ Helen said. ‘I don’t want to distress her.’ She wanted to see Maeve’s room, get a feel for the place since Sinead spent so much time there.
‘Oh, you won’t distress her. I can’t guarantee she’ll be awake though. I’ll take you straight up.’
They continued down the corridor, past a couple of rooms with the similar oak panelling of the reception that looked like they were used as offices. Further down, double doors sat open on a bright room on the right, filled with floral sofas and chairs. Helen spotted an elderly man reading a book in the corner; several wheelchairs arced around the television.
‘That’s one of our day rooms,’ Barbara said proudly. ‘We have three.’
At the bottom of the corridor, they waited for the lift doors to open. ‘Maeve’s on the second floor,’ Barbara said, guiding Helen inside.
‘How long have you had this place?’ Helen asked as the lift jolted and cranked into action.
‘Oh, it must be five years now. I was here when Maeve arrived. Of course, she was quite different then. She’s deteriorated very quickly.’
‘How well do you know the family?’
‘Reasonably well. In a professional capacity. We don’t encourage personal relationships between families and staff at Bracken Hall.’ She closed her eyes, gave a quick head shake. ‘It muddies the waters somewhat.’
‘What about Sinead? How often did she come in?’
‘Most days. She came and went as she pleased.’
‘And Blane?’
‘Occasionally. We actively encourage family members of our residents to visit. It helps to settle their loved ones. I generally only saw the O’Donnells if they needed to chat about something, or if there was a problem with Maeve. It was usually Sinead I spoke with.’
‘Were there many problems?’
‘Sinead was… How should I put this? An attentive family member. Read the carers’ notes; checked her mother’s cupboards to make sure her clothes were folded; wanted to know what she’d eaten for dinner.’
‘Was that difficult?’
‘Not difficult. No. We pride ourselves in providing the highest level of care here. Let’s just say another home might find it tricky with such a hands-on family member.’ The lift jolted to a stop. ‘Ah, here we are. Maeve is the first door on the left.’
They walked into a large room that was light and homely. Fitted wardrobes lined one wall, with a dressing table in the middle. A bath robe hung on the back of the door. The bed was made up in a pastel floral fabric, which co-ordinated with the curtains and faced a window overlooking a patchwork of rolling countryside at the rear of the building.
‘Hello, Maeve.’ Barbara crossed to an easy chair at the side of the bed and crouched beside a petite woman in a pink jumper with a crocheted blanket tucked neatly around her legs. ‘I’ve brought a visitor to see you.’ Her hair was dark and cropped short, her complexion shockingly clear and young; she didn’t look a day over fifty, even though she was nearly sixty.
Maeve wasn’t sleeping, she was staring ahead, entranced. If she was aware of their presence, she certainly didn’t let on.
The door to the wardrobe sat ajar, exposing a perfect line of trousers. A pile of jumpers beneath. Helen imagined Sinead coming in to see her mother after a busy day at work. Fastidiously folding her mother’s clothes. Checking the carer’s notes at the end of the bed. Wiping spittle from her mother’s chin. All the while, receiving no reaction, no acknowledgement. Life could be so cruel.
A mosaic of photos filled a frame headed My Family on the wall beside Maeve. Pictures of Sinead and her mother in a rose garden in happier times. The children on the beach with buckets and spades. Sinead and Blane’s wedding photo. Another of Sinead,
Maeve and a young man. Sinead’s late brother, she guessed. Children’s paintings sat alongside the frame, drawings of stick people above it.
‘Hello, Maeve.’ Helen sat on the edge of the bed and introduced herself. ‘I’m here to ask you some questions about Sinead.’ She paused, her eyes focused on the old woman, watching for any hint of a reaction. There was none.
Helen tried a few gentle questions. When she was convinced her words weren’t going to be answered, she stood and gave Barbara a nod. It was worth a try.
‘Are there any of the carers who’ve got to know the family?’ Helen asked when they were back in the lift.
‘Well, Natalia Kowalski is Maeve’s regular carer. She works days mostly, was often here when Sinead visited. She’d probably be your best bet. She’s away at the moment.’
‘Ah, yes. Your receptionist mentioned her. Do you know where I can reach her?’
‘No, sorry. She’s off until Tuesday. I believe she’s gone on holiday. I can give you her mobile number.’
The lift pinged and they climbed out. Helen followed Barbara into an office down the corridor, close to reception. It was a grand affair, with oak panelled walls and a large desk beside the window. She imagined many a family sitting on the leather chairs in front of the desk, discussing their relative’s needs.
‘When did you last see Sinead?’ she asked.
‘I asked to see her last Friday.’
‘Why?’
Barbara gave a thin smile. ‘She was a little behind with her payment.’
‘How far?’
‘A month.’ Barbara squared her hands on the desk in front. ‘We’ve received payment from the local authority, it’s the family top-up that’s outstanding. We don’t usually allow our families credit, but we do try to extend the payment period where we can. Maeve has been with us for several years, I was aware of the family’s financial struggles. I believe they’ve been in the process of arranging additional funding.’
‘What did Sinead say when you confronted her about the debt?’
‘She told me she was having a few admin problems with the bank, said that she’d get on to them. I’d placed a note in my diary to speak with her again this Friday.’
CHAPTER 19
Later, Helen was awoken by the sound of a mobile buzzing. She blinked her dry eyes open. Vague recollections of driving home nudged her. The cold whoosh of an empty house as she crossed the threshold. Walking into the front room, dropping onto the sofa. She must have fallen asleep instantly. She sat up and flinched at the pain in her shoulder; the bruising from Blane’s fist was blooming with a vengeance.
The movement dislodged a pile of papers on her lap. As she reached to grab them, her phone slipped from beside her and fell to the floor. The buzzing cut. The sound of it crashing against the wooden floor reverberated around her head. She cursed the phone, then cursed herself for falling asleep, fully dressed, on the sofa.
The casing was cracked in the corner, but thankfully the phone wasn’t damaged. Caller unknown. At least she hadn’t missed a call from the incident room.
In the kitchen, Helen poured herself a glass of milk and drank it down in one, relishing the cold liquid cascading through her, awakening her senses. It was almost 6.30 p.m. They were playing the waiting game. Waiting on forensics; for witnesses to contact them in response to the public appeal; for Sinead’s colleague to return from holiday. The sheer reality that Sinead had been dead for over twenty-four hours, and she was no closer to finding the killer than when she’d entered the factory the night before jarred her.
Where had Sinead gone when she left her car in Ashdown Lane that morning? And who had she gone with?
What really grated at her, what picked away at the side of her brain, was the systematic torture, the burns on her wrists, the severed fingers. Why?
She replayed the conversation with the manager of Bracken Hall. Sinead was behind with payment for her mother’s care. Blane’s mother’s house wasn’t yet ready to put on the market, so no cash would be freed up from there anytime soon. Before Helen left the office, she’d asked her team to double-check the victim’s bank accounts.
The sound of the landline ringing interrupted her thoughts.
She padded out to the hallway, her head still thick with sleep.
‘Mum?’
Helen smiled. The depth of her youngest son’s voice still amused her, even though it dropped several months ago. ‘Robert. How are you?’
‘Good, thanks. Gran took us abseiling today. It was amazing!’
The idea of her demure sixty-five-year-old mother trussed up in a weatherproof suit with safety equipment and ropes attached to her prompted a chuckle. ‘Sounds cool.’
‘It was.’
She leant against the hallway table as he talked her through his day of raft building in the morning, abseiling in the afternoon. At fourteen, Robert was young for his age, still keen to chat and spend time with her. Unlike his fifteen-year-old brother, Matthew, a teenager of few words, especially on the phone. She’d barely spoken to Matthew since they’d been away, while her mother and Robert called most evenings.
‘What are you up to now?’ she asked as he finished up.
‘Just been out for pizza. Matt’s gone down to the centre to play in a badminton tournament.’
‘Ah, well give him my love. Can I speak to Gran?’
There was a rustle in the background and Jane Lavery’s smooth tone filled the line. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ Helen looked at the caller unknown message on the handset and frowned. ‘Aren’t you guys using your mobiles?’
‘The signal’s hopeless here. We’ve given up on ours, much to Matthew’s dismay. He spends most of his time at the centre, where he can tap into their Wi-Fi.’
‘I bet.’ A wry smile. She couldn’t imagine her eldest son lasting five minutes without the internet. ‘I hear you’ve been abseiling today.’
Her mother snorted. ‘I was more of a spectator actually. I’m not sure those poor instructors are ready for the sight of my rear descending down Dinas Rock. The boys had a good time, though.’
Helen laughed. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourselves.’
‘You know your boys. If there’s sports and pizza, they’re happy.’
Helen felt a pang of regret. Her children were growing up fast, it would have been lovely to join them on this break. Spring bank holiday was her favourite week away: coinciding with school half-term, it marked the beginning of summer in her book. Long balmy days. Sunshine. She gave a wistful sigh. Everything seemed better, clearer, in the sunshine. But with her recent bout of sick leave, she couldn’t afford to take any more time away from work.
‘Anyway, how are you?’ Jane Lavery continued. ‘Are you back at the office yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘And… How are things?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual. Nothing changes.’
‘I can imagine.’
Helen chewed the side of her mouth. The investigation, the murder and torture of another cop, was high profile. She needed to share it with her family before they heard it elsewhere, reassure them she was safe. But she needed to find the right words.
The phone line crackled. Voices chatted in the background. ‘Mum?’
It was a while before Jane replied and, when she did, she was flustered. ‘It looks like we got the wrong time for the badminton tournament. Matthew’s already started. I need to go.’
‘Could I just—’
‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, darling. Love you.’ And she was gone.
Helen dropped the phone into the cradle and gripped the edge of the table. She meant to tell her about the new case, give her mother a chance to prepare her boys.
If she closed her eyes, she could still see her boys’ anxious faces in the hospital room after her last case. Gaping at the split in her lip, the bruises on her forehead. The concern in her mother’s face. They’d played down Helen’s injuries to the children, but the fear i
n her mother that day, the awareness her daughter had faced a close call with death, remained raw.
During the long days at home these past weeks, Helen had contemplated a move away from the dangers of front line policing, taking a sideways step into admin or the control room. Since John died, she’d been mother and father to her boys. They needed to feel secure, confident that when they parted in the mornings, they’d be reunited with their mother at the end of the day.
Problem was, she’d been raised by a murder detective and while never party to the specifics, they’d followed James Lavery’s cases when she was a kid. Celebrated the successes, mourned the disappointments. And walking back into the incident room yesterday felt like she’d stepped into an old pair of comfortable slippers. It wasn’t that she wished serious crime on the good residents of Hampton. Not at all. But when it did occur, she couldn’t envisage a scenario when she wasn’t involved in the manhunt. That’s what she’d joined the force for. To follow in her father’s footsteps, rid the streets of serious offenders.
And the attack on her had been a one-off, hadn’t it? An incident unlikely to occur again during her career. Surely, she could be a good mum and still manage the murder squad.
Of course, she could. It was merely a matter of reassuring her family, keeping them updated, convincing them of her safety.
They were still in those crucial golden hours. Maybe they’d get a breakthrough and trace the ATM suspect. Things could be so different tomorrow. And her mother, who rarely checked the news channels on holiday, was less likely to hear with restricted Wi-Fi. She resolved to call her family in the morning. In the meantime, they could all enjoy a well-deserved rest.
Her mobile vibrated in the front room, pulling her from her dilemma.
‘Evening,’ Pemberton said. ‘We’ve checked Sinead’s bank records again. She’s on overdraft. And Maeve’s account, that she has power of attorney for, is down to double figures. She was also turned down by the bank for a loan last month. Unless she has hidden funds we aren’t aware of, it doesn’t look as though she was in a position to pay those nursing home fees anytime soon.’