A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have more conversation,” he said to her with a grin. The other guests had insisted on regaling the whole table with every detail of their walk. They had travelled from the Netherlands, so the undulating Irish landscape had them totally bewitched.

  “Me too,” she smiled back, the smile totally transformed her face, making her pretty, with twinkly eyes. “But I’m afraid my bed is calling, goodnight to you.” She turned as Joyce reappeared bearing a large tray of bottles.

  “Were you to meet anyone here?” Dermot tried: he was sure she was his contact.

  “No, just a stop-off, on my way in the morning,” she was curt.

  “A nice drop of malt, Dermot?” Joyce cut in, laying the tray carefully on the sideboard. “This one from Tyrconnell is lovely, light as a feather and rich at the same time.” She went through the bottles. “Erin, will you join us? Just the one? Go over to the fire, take that easy chair there, sure we didn’t get a chance to even talk to the poor man, that nice couple from Holland were so full of their day out.”

  The woman hesitated. Dermot wanted her to stay, he liked the look of her.

  “Thanks Joyce but I won’t stay, if you don’t mind. I’ve had a long journey and I’ve further to go tomorrow,” she said in a warm husky voice, difficult to place the accent: a mixture of Dublin and English.

  “Of course,” Joyce gave her cheek a little kiss, “goodnight dear.”

  “Goodnight Erin,” Dermot said disappointed, she could have been his contact, she did look like she could be a in a Thomas Bentley film. She did not reply, just slipped quietly away, leaving a faint scent of jasmine behind her.

  Joyce handed Dermot a squat glass of solid crystal. The amber liquid glowed gold in the firelight. She held it up like a jewel, examining each facet.

  “The best time of day, sláinte” she said, taking a sip. “Well young man, I’m guessing you’re here to receive your orders?”

  Dermot blinked at his hostess.

  “Well, aren’t you?” she said.

  Dermot smiled to himself. Of course, Joyce was his contact. She knew why he was there, she was well ahead of the game. He loved working with professionals, even if they were on the other side.

  “High Commander,” he nodded a salute before he sipped his drink. She waved a hand, dismissing his elevation of her rank. “There’s a big shipment on its way, I just need to know when and where to do my bit,” he said hoping he did not sound too vague.

  Joyce looked at him shrewdly.

  “I’m only a messenger Dermot, a go-between, I don’t get involved in anything risky, I’m not a criminal, just a supporter. I’m intrigued though, what is it?” she asked.

  Dermot decided to share what he knew; a sprat to catch a mackerel.

  “We’ve hived off some standard-issue guns and ammunition from the British Army, on its way to Afghanistan I believe.” Dermot said.

  “Poor bastards, I wouldn’t send a snake out there,” Joyce said grimly. “How’s it coming in?”

  “How much do you need to know ma’am?” Dermot asked, hedging his bets.

  Joyce laughed, “Just tell me it’s not Pat using that ridiculous section cut out of the chassis of the taxi. Good heavens above, thinks he’s James Bond completely if he brings a bit of contraband to and from the island in that. He also thinks the local Garda haven’t a clue what he’s up to, the eejit.”

  “You mean those two uniforms are clean?” Dermot was surprised.

  “Not at all, but they’d never get involved with Pat. He’s no discretion at all, though he’s a great decoy, if you ever needed one,” she said.

  “Interesting,” Dermot said. “Have you heard if anything else is coming in with the shipment?”

  Joyce raised her eyebrows. “Do you mean drugs?”

  Dermot nodded.

  “No!” She banged her glass down on the table. “No, no, no. I won’t have anything to do with drugs. I don’t care certain elements of the organisation use them to fund other things, but it’s not right. It sullies the campaign, makes it less honourable. I’m a great believer in the old ways,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?” Dermot asked.

  “Donations, that’s my department, I try and keep up the pressure on New York. I have good contacts there, still our biggest ally in my opinion.” She went silent, staring into the fire.

  Dermot used the silence to think things through. So Joyce had no inkling the arms shipment was being used as a decoy for the cocaine. In fact if she did it sounded like she would go and sink the whole lot herself. Dermot was pleased he had played his cards close to his chest.

  “What’s the plan then?” Dermot asked, bringing her back to the present.

  “Well, my niece Marianne has bought the big house on the island. She’s going to turn it into a children’s home, or something,” Joyce said.

  Dermot nodded, he knew this.

  “It’s been empty a long time and we’ve used it in the past as a safe house, a stock hold. There’s good landing for a small, study boat. It can get a bit rough thereabouts, the bay sits in a deep dip, and nothing can be seen from the village or even out to sea - a smugglers’ paradise,” she told him.

  “Maybe in the past but everything’s so much more high-tech now, we probably don’t need an old smugglers’ hideaway.” Dermot did not like the idea of any part of the operation being near anything to do with children, Marianne, or civilisation for that matter.

  “That’s up to you, just giving you a bit of local knowledge” Joyce said, “But you’ll need to stash it somewhere until the dust settles, although I doubt the disappearance of a cache on its way to Afghanistan will go public. Even if the press did find out it would be quashed. Very bad PR to admit a consignment of expensive guns and explosives has disappeared off the face of the earth, too embarrassing.”

  “Which is why this should all be relatively easy,” Dermot assured her, and himself. “Now I just need to know what my job is?” Dermot said. This was going well, very well indeed.

  Joyce went to the bureau, and retrieved a large, black document wallet from a drawer. She expertly spun the combination lock and handed Dermot a USB stick, a slim, silver case no bigger than a cigarette lighter - a tiny memory stick.

  “Everything’s on that: files, customs and excise notations, shipping documents, the lot. The goods will land on the coast, south of Westport, in about six weeks’ time. It will be aboard a fishing trawler coming from Plymouth. You’re to load it straight onto your vessel and get it back to Innishmahon ASAP. The plan is to off-load it and hold it there until we get instructions that C-Division is on its way to collect. The last stage of your involvement is to ensure it’s loaded onto their boat and is safely away heading north.”

  “Seems simple enough,” Dermot said, flipping the memory stick in his fingers.

  “Not quite. There could be more trouble than just the obvious.” Joyce was watching him carefully.

  “What do you mean?” Dermot asked.

  “There are already rumours an undercover operation is in place. It’s highly likely someone is going to try to intervene at some stage, nab the shipment and return it to its rightful owner or, depending on how bribable they are, sell it onto the highest bidder. There’s quite a market for what’s been acquired out there.” Joyce gave the dying fire a gentle poke, the last of the peat glowed.

  “Tricky,” Dermot scratched his head. Joyce was as sharp as a knife, he had indulged a little too readily in her generous hospitality; he had to be careful not to let anything slip.

  “Ah sure, nothing to a man of your calibre, Dermot,” Joyce went to refill their glasses. “I’m surprised I never came across you before. Were you active in the organisation while you were in the Gardaí, or is this part of your retirement plan?” she gave a little laugh.

  Dermot smiled, “Despite what the newspapers would have you believe, Dublin is not the centre of the criminal universe, I’ve done my stint serving the community, so jumped at the chance of the lifebo
at captaincy on Innishmahon, but it’s a love job. When the opportunity came along to give the cause I hand, sure I decided to give it a go.”

  Joyce returned to her chair, handing Dermot his glass.

  “I had no warning you were coming but I guessed they’d send someone soon enough. Sure that’s often the way, you just have to go with the flow,” Joyce told him. “And the movement, how did you get involved with that? Have you always believed the whole of Ireland should belong to the Irish? Or did something happen on your road to Damascus?”

  Dermot had never given it much thought; he frowned briefly. “Oh, I see what you mean. I imagine my beliefs are very similar to your own Joyce,” he smiled at her warmly.

  “Really?” Joyce was intrigued.

  “In fact, I was hoping you’d tell me all about it. Your role in the whole thing, vital cog in the wheel, a genuine freedom fighter. I believe you’re considered quite the heroine in high places.”

  Joyce beamed at him and settled into the wing chair to regale this handsome young man with tales of daring do. What a treat. Dermot sipped his drink; he was in for a long night. As Joyce began, he thought he heard a footstep on the stair. He glanced across the room, a brief shadow, silence. He sat back struggling to keep his eyes open.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Nothing To Forgive

  Before making Innishmahon her home, Marianne had been an award-winning, investigative journalist. In her former life she mixed with politicians, entertainers and aristocracy; she had seen the homes, yachts and trappings of the wealthy and powerful. Franco Rossini’s home in wealthy upstate New York was not going to intimidate her. So she was surprised when the limousine slipped through a large, plain gateway, rolled along a well-maintained but unremarkable drive to the entrance of a smart yet unostentatious ranch-style house.

  As the chauffeur opened the door to guide her out, a sprightly gentleman with gunmetal-grey hair and moustache rushed to greet them. Marianne recognised him immediately. He too wore navy. A beautifully cut Italian suit, white shirt, plain navy tie; he had a fresh camellia in his button hole. He pulled a tight smile at Ryan, clamping him in his arms, kissing him on both cheeks.

  “My boy, what a time eh?” he said. He turned warm, brown eyes on Marianne. His face softened. “And this is Marianne,” he said her name with a flourish. “My dear child, I am so sorry your visit here is for such a sad occasion. Thank you for coming.”

  “Mr Rossini,” she went to shake his hand. He kissed her on both cheeks too. “I’m pleased to meet you, I’m sorry under such circumstances.”

  He nodded solemnly, “Call me Franco, please.” Marianne looked into his face. His welcome was genuine, despite his sadness. The car bearing the siblings, Larry and Lena Leeson with Arnie Cohen, their lawyer drew up behind them.

  “Come,” Franco opened his arms, guiding his guests into the house. A woman stood at the door. She wore the uniform of hired help, there was no-one else there. Marianne was suddenly sorry for this wealthy, successful elderly gentleman. He had nobody. He was alone.

  They gathered in the library off the main hall. The walls were lined with books and paintings of faraway vineyards, cypress trees and sweeping mountain ranges, a fire crackled in the grate. It was the home of a gentleman farmer, a man of the country, with no indication of the glitzy industry that had made Rossini his millions. Seats were arranged before a large desk, coffee served. Another man and woman arrived. Ryan recognised Albert Emmanuel and his wife Nina, old friends of the Rossini’s; Albert was also Franco’s lawyer. Albert checked his watch.

  “Shall we begin Franco?” he asked.

  The older man nodded.

  “This isn’t an inquiry,” Albert said, after formal introductions, “rather, Franco’s wish to understand the last few days of Angelique’s life. They had become estranged and although he was informed of her whereabouts and tried to maintain contact, it was difficult.”

  Ryan nodded, watching Franco intently.

  “So if everyone is in agreement, Mr Rossini would like a few questions answered, just for his own peace of mind and if all is satisfactory we can proceed with the funeral.”

  The room fell silent. They could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hall.

  “Shall we start with you, Ryan? The last time Mr Rossini saw his niece, she told him she was going to Ireland, she was hoping for a reconciliation, she said she was sure you and Joey would be coming home to the US very soon.”

  “What?” Ryan was on his feet. “She said what?” Larry stood too.

  Mr Rossini raised his hands. “He’s only saying what she told me the last time we spoke on the phone, that’s all.”

  “But it’s not true Franco. That was never going to happen. It was over. We have new partners, I have a new life,” he looked at Marianne, she smiled back at him. Mr Rossini motioned Ryan to sit down.

  “Let’s just look at the facts Ryan. We’ll tell it our way, then you tell it your way. It’s hard not to get emotional, it’s an emotional time, but easy, take it easy,” Mr Rossini said in a soothing voice. “Albert, you got the report from the hospital there?”

  “Angelique’s latest medical report indicated that her treatment was successful and her condition greatly improved - she was no longer substance dependent. She had been clean for six months, including alcohol,” Albert was reading from a file now.

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Franco,” he said, “none of this is true.”

  Arnie coughed. A little man with a shiny bald head, he wore glasses with bottle-end lenses and carried an air of anguished intensity. He opened his briefcase and took out a large wodge of paperwork.

  “Mr Rossini, I have all of Miss de Marcos’ latest medical reports here but if, as Mr O’Gorman says, these are unsubstantiated, more interestingly I have further, more recent witness statements from hotel staff, airline representatives who all confirm that Miss de Marcos was not clean, shall I go on?”

  Franco turned to Albert. “What’s all this? Did you know any of this?” he demanded.

  Marianne was watching them carefully.

  “Has he always had her under surveillance?” she whispered to Ryan.

  He shrugged. “Didn’t think it was anything as thorough as this.”

  Arnie’s file looked impressive: what else had he uncovered? Marianne looked across at Larry. Surely he was the one who told Miss MacReady that Angelique was embezzling, about the insurance company wanting to question her and her absconding from the secure unit. Would any of this be revealed now? But Larry looked relatively calm, like he pretty much had things under control.

  Albert put his hand over Mr Rossini’s clenched fist on the desk.

  “Angelique had powerful friends, unscrupulous people, you know that. I have suspected for some time that much of the information, particularly the health reports we receive, is falsified. People paid to say what we wanted to hear, paid to deliver a version of Angelique’s life that was not entirely accurate.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Lena said sharply. They all turned to look at her, “If you want the truth, Mr Rossini I think you should have it. Marianne, will you tell Mr Rossini what you told us last night, then Larry can fill in the gaps right up to where he was arrested and nearly had a nervous breakdown over Angelique and her condition.” She waved a hand at Arnie, “We’ve paid a fortune and spent frantic days pulling this evidence together and I’m sorry, Mr Rossini, but it’s time to stop pulling punches, then maybe we can lay that poor girl to rest, and get on with our lives. There, it had to be said.”

  Everyone in the room blinked at her. Mr Rossini reached across the desk and closed the lawyer’s file.

  “Very well,” he said, taking in the whole room with his glance, “let’s hear the truth, it will be quite a refreshing experience for me, I get given so much crap these days.” And he shot Albert a look.

  Two hours later, Marianne and Ryan were in the limousine, heading south towards New York City. Franco listened intently to their accou
nts of Angelique’s final days. Arnie even showed a video of Sean Grogan’s bizarre interview to those gathered. Rossini sat quietly throughout, staring out of the window at a most remarkable view; rows and rows of thriving vines, standing like soldiers across the hillside, sweeping down to Canandaigua, a sprawling, dark lake; Rossini’s little Italy in upstate New York.

  “That bit was true, wasn’t it? She was a beautiful woman, and the people did take her to their hearts.” His eyes were filled with tears. They mumbled agreement before he called an end to the proceedings and led the way to the little chapel at the entrance of the private graveyard. A young priest gave a short service before the burial. Marianne watched as the ivory coffin, borne aloft by Ryan, Rossini, Albert and Larry, was taken to the plot beside Sophia’s angel and lowered slowly into the ground. She stayed a little way back, as Franco gave each of the guests a lily to toss into the grave - a final goodbye. The others were chatting. She was reading Sophia’s inscription when Rossini appeared beside her beneath a cypress tree.

  “What does it mean?” she asked him.

  “Sophia Magdalene Rossini, beloved wife of Franco. I am only half until we meet again and you make me whole,” he gave her a sad smile. “I think you know what that feels like.” He offered her a lily. “Will you go and make peace with Angelique, tell her you forgive her, give her space to forgive you,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said.

  “Well, that’s a good place to start,” he replied. Marianne took the lily and went with him to the grave, to say a final goodbye to her lover’s wife.

  The most haunting aspect of the whole event for Marianne was Mr Rossini - he and his solitary spaniel. She watched them out of the rear window as they drove away; a lonely old man and his dog, standing in the rain. She turned back and looked at Ryan, white-faced, fists clenched in his lap. It had been a tough day.

  “Let’s just go home, Ryan,” she said quietly, ‘let’s get home as soon as we can.”

  He squeezed her hand, too drained to speak.