by Mary Malone
Kieran laughed along with him, agreeing with him but not admitting it, impressed at his perception of his aunt. “Leave your number and I’ll pass on the message.” He’d have to talk to Frank as soon as John left. Otherwise he’d be spinning a web of lies that would be impossible to memorise.
“Polly has my number,” John said, then swivelled his head around at the sound of a child’s voice.
“Kieran, want a game of ball?” A small fair head appeared through the back gate.
“Sure, come on in,” he invited, delighted with the interruption. Greg couldn’t have timed it better.
“You’ll tell her I called so?” John repeated. “Tell her I’ll be looking forward to meeting up with her soon.”
“As soon as she returns from this trip,” Kieran stated, struck by a longing to talk to her and ask her what the hell was going on. In that moment, he’d have given anything for his aunt to make an appearance, a real one though, not a ghostly apparition! “Sorry you’ve had a wasted trip, John.”
“Not to worry. As I said, I was in the neighbourhood.” He nodded in Greg’s direction. “Your opponent is keen,” he commented, watching Greg placing two cracked flowerpots on the grass, obviously creating a goal space.
“Going to play for United, aren’t you, Greg?” Kieran was glad of the distraction.
Greg beamed, looking around him for the football and spotting it under the hedge.
Watching John Kilmichael leave by the side entrance, his gait jerked a niggle of familiarity in Kieran’s mind. Who else walks like that? Throwing their right leg out to the side a little as they walk? Who is it he reminds me of?
“Who’s that man?” Greg asked, picking up a football from under the hedge, demanding his attention. “Catch!”
“His name is John Kilmichael but other than that I have no idea!” Although I’ve a feeling I’ll be seeing more of him, he thought, running to grab the football before it bounced against the kitchen window. He tossed it back to Greg, laughing when it rolled between his legs. “Goal!”
“Not fair. I didn’t know we’d started yet,” Greg pouted.
“I’m so sorry, Kieran,” Jess announced, her head appearing over the hedge. “Is he annoying you again?”
“Not at all, leave him. I’m due a break from cleaning!”
“If you’re sure.”
“Positive,” Kieran assured her, meeting her smile with his as she gave him a little wave and disappeared.
Later that afternoon when Jess called Greg home for his tea, Kieran returned to clearing out the shed, going through the random selection of items with less enthusiasm than earlier, his thoughts fixed on John Kilmichael and the complicated tale he’d spun him. Resurrecting his aunt from the dead would only last so long, he thought, wiping the sweat from his forehead. A tidy shed for his day’s work, a confused mind for the night ahead no doubt.
Chapter 23
Frank Dulhooly shook two tablets from the container and popped them into his mouth, following them down with a long slug of water. Staring through the kitchen window, he willed the tablets to kick into action and dull the throbbing in his head. He’d had a blazing row with Marian the previous evening, the worst they’d had in a while. His head still ached, the sharp insults they’d exchanged difficult to forget. Their marriage had always been tumultuous, neither slow at holding back, their incompatibility impossible to overcome.
Part of him regretted holding back the truth as they’d traded sharp retorts. If he’d answered her questions about his meeting with Carl honestly instead of being cagey and hesitant, he’d have had a peaceful night’s sleep and not a night of restless tossing and turning. It was no surprise he’d woken up with a throbbing head!
“I’m off to meet our daughter,” Marian snapped, entering the kitchen. “See if I can help her even if her own father is working against her.”
He didn’t bother to turn around and face his wife’s wrath. There wasn’t much point. Days would pass before she’d address him in a civil tone again. Sighing, he continued staring at the overgrown shrubbery and hedging, wishing he could channel his anger and frustration into putting shape on the garden. But failing health – not to mention the continued warnings he’d received from his cardiologist – no longer permitted him the luxury of breaking into any form of sweat. His gym regime had been seriously curtailed, the gentle programme created on his doctor’s advice a paltry substitute for the stringent physical routine he had revelled in. Golf, also played at a slower pace, was as near as he got to relaxation these days. And of course he didn’t need a medical professional to point out that stress was increasing his problems.
Marian knew nothing of his health issues, paying sparse attention to him or his activities – at least not that he’d noticed. Feeling particularly sorry for himself, he surmised that her only interest in him was the lifestyle he’d provided. There’ll be money spent today, he mused, moving away from the window when the front door slammed behind his wife, followed by the distinctive rustle of gravel as she pulled her Range Rover away from the front door. Every row cost him dearly, her shopping fetish exacerbated by anger.
Damn woman and her unfounded accusations, he thought, still peeved by her taunts. Rubbing a hand over his temple, he failed to soothe his still-aching head. If anything it was worsening. Reaching for the receiver on the wall phone, he dialled his son-in-law’s mobile number, deciding to tackle the thorny issue they’d discussed in the coffee shop. At least I’ll have reason for a splitting migraine, he thought! Gritting his teeth, he inhaled deeply and barked a gruff hello when Carl’s cool tones came down the line.
“Carl, I’ve been thinking about your proposal and I’d like to get things moving right now.”
“Yeah?”
“No point waiting around.”
“Oh, right?”
Frank recognised the surprise in the younger man’s voice, taking pleasure in shocking him. How dare Marian accuse him of failing his daughter? His children were everything to him but that didn’t mean they always had to get their own way. He wondered how she’d behave if the inheritance was coming from her side of the family. Very differently, he suspected.
“Before we take this further, I want to reiterate what we agreed.”
“I thought we’d been over it enough by now,” Carl returned without hesitation. How many more times, he thought, his father-in-law’s insistence at repeating every detail grating on his nerves. But he wasn’t in a position to check him, needing his assistance to guarantee Ed the peace of mind he deserved.
“You walk away from Beth, lock, stock and barrel.”
He heard his son-in-law’s sharp intake of breath, mistaking exasperation for concern. Were there still some feelings left between his daughter and Carl, he wondered? There certainly hadn’t been any grand gestures of affection between them, at least not in his company and certainly not from the snippets Marian had shared with him. What he’d witnessed recently had been a disturbing reminder of his relationship with Marian, resentment festering between them, snapped words and venomous looks. Wishing more than anything he’d heeded Polly’s repeated – if wasted – words of warning when she’d begged him to reconsider marrying Marian, he continued his conversation with Carl, hoping to save Beth from a similar fate, enabling her to get out while she still had the best years of her life to enjoy.
“What if Beth wants us to have another chance? Shouldn’t that decision be between me and my wife?”
“Not if you want me to realise your brother’s final wish.”
Frank waited, unperturbed by the lengthening silence, making no effort to fill it, not a bit surprised when Carl acquiesced with little argument.
“Okay. Once everything’s in place and it’s literally in black and white on legal documents, I’ll move out of Goleen.”
Frank gritted his teeth. Carl’s tone was a little too smug and spoilt for his liking. “Not just out of the house and the area, out of the country.” Ireland’s too small, he thought. Beth deserves a
fresh start, one he’d see that she would receive.
“But –”
“That’s the deal, Carl. You can return to France, or wherever the hell takes your fancy. I don’t need to know your chosen location, once you’re out of Beth’s life.”
“But what about –” he tried again.
“I’ll sort it,” Frank insisted, interpreting his son-in-law’s concerns. Lodging enough money in a bank account to get him as far away as possible would be a small price to pay. With a bit of luck and co-operation from the right people, he’d be gone by Christmas. “I’ll need documentation of the case so far, copies of whatever Ed gave the authorities, dates and times of investigative interviews and anything else you can think of.”
“Should we meet to discuss it in more detail?”
“No need,” Frank said. The less contact he had with his daughter’s husband, the better it suited him. “I’ll be in touch when I need to speak with you. And I’ll pay Ed a visit too, hear the saga from the horse’s mouth so to speak.”
“And what do I do in the meantime?”
“Put one foot – or hand – out of line, particularly where Beth’s concerned, and the deal’s off.”
“What if Beth wants me to stay, Frank?”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to throw idle threats around, Carl.”
The continuous dial tone rang in Frank’s ear. His son-in-law had hung up. Ignorant so-and-so, he thought, replacing the receiver and sitting down to think through his strategy.
French law was a minefield and the press there were vultures, sinking their teeth in a story and tearing at it until all life had been sucked away. This was how they had destroyed recent events in Ed’s fashion house, bringing it to its knees overnight, attacking its reputation and tarnishing it beyond repair. Frank admired and appreciated Ed’s depth of devotion to his business. Building it up from scratch, applying every breath and ounce of passion on it as others bestowed them upon their families, its disintegration ripped through his heart like the piercing pain of grief. Too advanced in his illness to tackle the press and judicial system, he had come to Ireland to die. Begging Carl to continue his fight and defend his company’s reputation, he’d outlined his two final wishes: the first to have his name cleared and his designer label restored to its rightful place on the fashion A-list, the second to die with his brother at his side.
Frank took his mobile phone from his pocket and scrolled through the list of contacts, dithering over his best approach. Carl had neither the means nor resources to deal with such a huge task. His efforts failing miserably, he’d approached his father-in-law. Inviting me to the coffee shop to ask for help must have severely dented his pride, Frank conceded. They’d never shared a very close relationship, Frank allergic to Carl’s cocky attitude and not afraid to show it. His finger still on the scroll button on his contacts list, he stopped at a name he hadn’t been in touch with for a very long time – an industrial-espionage private detective.
The last he’d heard through the proverbial grapevine, Mags was divorced and working around the clock. Could she provide the key to my problems, Frank wondered, his finger hovering over the green button to dial her number. If she answered and agreed to co-operate, she could be his fast-track to the nub of the issue, saving him time wading through layers of red tape. Time being scarce for Ed, there wasn’t a moment to waste. He stared at the phone, his heart rate increasing as he punched in the first few digits of Mags’ number. Ridiculous at my age, he thought with a wry smile. One digit left to press, he tossed the phone onto the island unit and left the kitchen to pour a stiff brandy, ignoring doctor’s orders and unconcerned that the clock still hadn’t struck noon.
Olivia Jacobs pulled open the top drawer of her filing cabinet, flicking through the sections until she came upon the file for Number 5 Pier Road. She returned to her desk, opened the folder and scanned the array of documents carefully, refreshing her memory on every detail. Pauline Digby had been specific in her instructions, had anticipated a flurry of confusion over her decision and put as many safeguards in place as possible. Even at that, however, Olivia still had a process to follow and despite best-laid plans these situations invariably presented exceptional circumstances, an angle that hadn’t been considered and evidence that might well be enough to rewrite history.
The recent objections wouldn’t have come as a surprise to Polly. And despite anticipating as much, Olivia knew the dear old lady would still have been hurt by the insinuations. Tough as she appeared, Polly’s staunch independence paramount, intuition led Olivia to believe that the older lady’s hurt would cut deep if she were reading the health appraisal being issued against her now. Questioning her sanity, alluding to a long period of time where her brain’s processing ability had failed gradually, would undoubtedly infuriate her.
Dialling 0 for the Reception desk, Olivia chewed on the inside of her lip, instilled with a sense of responsibility to protect her client’s pride and dignity. “Amy, can you come in here a moment, please?”
Amy appeared within seconds, tottering in high heels that added at least four inches to her height, her working attire of tight-fitting white shirt and knee-length black pencil skirt impeccable as usual.
“Can you scrutinise these medical records for me, please? Compare them against the dates and conditions outlined in this geriatrician’s report. Highlight the discrepancies and drop the list into me when you’re finished. I’ll contact the geriatrician directly once I’ve gathered my facts.”
Amy nodded and took both listings, arching an eyebrow when she read the client’s name, a vivid and fond memory of the sole beneficiary coming to mind. “Wasn’t this a straightforward case?”
“You’re working here long enough to know the answer to that,” Olivia smiled. “Close the door on your way out, please.”
Once the younger girl had disappeared, Olivia reread the second objection, this one more complex than the first. Pauline hadn’t anticipated this one, she thought, frowning as she got up from her chair and took a law book from her bookshelf. At least she didn’t make any mention of it to me, but then, she thought with a grim smile, there’s nothing quite like inheritance to bring all sorts from the closet. It had been a while since she’d dealt with illegitimacy and the inheritance laws surrounding it. Rights had changed but she needed to brush up on her knowledge to ensure she represented her client’s interest to the best of her ability. The evidence was there. Now it was her job to ensure Polly’s heartfelt decision to provide her nephew with a home and a source of financial stability remained in place. Though she hated letting emotions colour professional decisions, she couldn’t deny that it rankled that Polly hadn’t divulged her innermost secret, considering she’d relied upon her judgement. Not the most sensible pieces of information to withhold under the circumstances, as it put her other decisions in jeopardy.
Chapter 24
In the middle of the night, Marian felt the bedroom close in around her. Her dependency on nicotine was on the increase. Seth’s progress with the legal process was slow, making her anxious and jittery and unable to relax. He’d lodged the objection with Polly’s solicitor, had sent Marian a copy of the letter. Reading every sentence a few times, the cruel dishonest facts filled her with serious apprehension rather than the satisfaction she’d been expecting. But the letter would already have arrived in the solicitor’s office so it was too late for regrets, a time instead to remain calm and hope for the best.
Lying in bed in the dark room, unable to sleep and craving a cigarette, she was haunted by an image of a grinning Polly Dulhooly, transported back to their first meeting in Marian’s uncle’s hotel.
Eight years her senior, Polly held the position of kitchen supervisor in the seaside hotel. Offered a summer job by her uncle, Marian had little interest in washing dishes or waiting tables but had accepted the position to put an end to her parents’ nagging.
Arriving late on her first day, Marian had refused to remove her coral lipstick or wear
a net over her long fair hair, delighting in getting Polly, her supervisor, into trouble. Confident her job was safe because she was the owner’s niece, she made no effort to conform to hotel rules, her unruly behaviour thwarting Polly and reducing the standards of her precious kitchen. By the end of Marian’s three-month stint, Polly had got into the habit of ignoring the owner’s niece, leaving Marian off the hook on many occasions and withering her with murderous looks each time they came in contact. Their mutual loathing continued from that summer in the hotel, Marian’s relationship with Polly’s only brother Frank the final insult.
Turning on her side, the pillowcase crinkling against her cheek, she glanced at her husband of over thirty-five years and wondered, if he hadn’t been called to the bar shortly after Seth had introduced them, where she would be right now. It’s unlikely she’d have married him without his professional success. Their relationship would have fizzled out if he’d been stuck in a dead-end job. But relishing a taste of the finer lifestyle became an accessory she found difficult to let go. Their courtship was short, their wedding a lavish affair, their differing relationships with Polly a continuous point of contention. Returning from their honeymoon, however, Marian was enraged to discover her brother, Seth, had taken more than a fleeting interest in her new sister-in-law at their reception. Doing everything in her power to warn him against her, she offered little sympathy when inevitably he realised their unsuitability and had confessed to Marian that he’d had enough.