Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense

by Laura Elliot

  ‘We’ll postpone any decision on investment until after we’ve had talks with the union,’ Peter said. ‘If the workers are going to make unrealistic wage demands we have to look at any future decisions in that light.’ He hoped he sounded authoritative but he noticed the dismissive tilt of Jon’s head and Stewart’s frown.

  ‘I thought the purpose of our German trip was to buy new equipment.’ Stewart stayed behind when the meeting ended and flung his report on the boardroom table. ‘You know as well as I do that we need to modernise to stay in business. Davern’s been insisting on too many cutbacks. We’re not making a quality product any more and it’s beginning to be noticed. One bad season and we’re down, two and we’re out.’

  ‘So?’ Peter shrugged. The need for a drink cramped his stomach. He wanted to return to Havenstone and sink into its silence once again. ‘You’re the production manager. You know that cost and quality have to be finely balanced. If that isn’t working then it’s time to do as Davern suggested and look at new strategies.’

  He was detached from his own words, as if his opinion floated on a string that could be pulled in to argue an opposite point of view with equal conviction. ‘You needn’t worry about your job. Your position with the company is safe, no matter what changes we make.’

  ‘A global sweatshop! Is that what you want me to run?’ Stewart demanded. ‘If you think I’m going to spend my time in some godforsaken hole on the edge of Asia then think again.’ His voice was quiet but determined. ‘I’ve no intention of being separated from my family now or in the future.’

  Peter swallowed hard, fighting his way through nausea. This was proving to be the mother and father of a hangover. He longed to smash his fist into his production manager’s angry face. A tight curling excitement tensed his stomach, as if he was already lunging across the desk and Stewart was reeling backwards in shock.

  Abruptly he stood up and lifted his coat from the rack. ‘I’m through for the day. As I said at the meeting, I can’t make decisions until we negotiate with the union. You’ll be fully informed if I decide to make any changes.’

  Outside the factory, he braced his body against the wind and walked towards his car. The fury he had felt in the office astonished him. Stewart McKeever was his childhood companion. The brother he always wanted. His trusted friend. How could he know a man all his life and then discover he was a stranger? How could this quiet man be a keeper of secrets – a custodian of lost love and past mistakes?

  Albert Grant called that evening. He rang the front doorbell three times in quick succession, a shrill summons that Peter was unable to ignore.

  ‘I’m on the way home from the Dáil so I thought I’d drop in and see how you’re faring.’ His breath hazed in the hall light as he entered the house, his bulky frame wrapped in a voluminous overcoat. ‘I thought you were never going to answer the door. It’s brass-monkey weather out there.’

  ‘How are you, Albert?’ Peter moaned inwardly at the idea of having to entertain him.

  ‘Glad to be out of that bear pit for the weekend, I can tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘I hear there’s talk of a cabinet reshuffle?’ He led the politician into the drawing room and handed him a measure of whiskey. He refrained from pouring a drink for himself, hoping to shorten his visit.

  ‘Ah, sure, even the walls gossip in that place. They’re worse than a gaggle of ould ones outside the church on a Sunday.’ The politician settled himself into an armchair and raised his glass. ‘Cheers, man. How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m coping.’

  ‘Life’s a rough road, God knows it is. It’s nearly two years since my dear Blossom passed away. God rest her sweet soul. Never an hour passes without her being in my thoughts.’

  What did the man want? A heart-to-heart on the widower experience? Peter decided he needed a drink after all.

  He had attended May Grant’s funeral, an impressive gathering that had filled the church in Anaskeagh. The politician had been the centrepiece of the occasion. His long eulogy delivered from the altar was an exercise in rhetoric and nostalgia. Peter’s mind had wandered after the first few minutes. His memory of May Grant did not match the eloquent words pouring from the mouth of her husband. He remembered her as an overweight, flustered woman who worked throughout her married life as his unpaid secretary, receiving neither appreciation nor acknowledgement until she was safely encased in her coffin.

  ‘Kieran has invited myself and Marjory to New York for Christmas,’ Albert said. ‘Obviously, Marjory won’t come here and it would be impossible for her to spend the day with the McKeevers. It’ll be difficult for us all, God knows it will, but New York will be a distraction for her.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. How is she?’

  ‘Distraught. You should visit her in the new year. You know you’re always welcome in Anaskeagh.’

  ‘Thanks, Albert. I’ll think about it. But at the moment I’m too busy―’

  ‘Busy?’ Albert raised his eyebrows and glanced around the room.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Peter saw the drawing room through the older man’s eyes. The stale smell of neglected, airless space. The shabby tracksuit he had pulled on when he returned from the factory embarrassed him. He rubbed his chin, his hand scratching rough stubble.

  ‘According to Jon Davern you’re finding it… shall we say difficult to focus on the job in hand,’ Albert continued. ‘Understandable, of course, given your sad circumstances. But a lot of people are depending on you, including my niece, Beth.’

  ‘I’ve never known Beth to be in need of anyone’s help, especially yours.’

  ‘She’s an independent woman, that’s for sure. But Sara’s death was a hard cross for everyone. The last thing Beth needs is to have any uncertainties in her life. There’s trouble with the union, I believe.’

  ‘We do have negotiating skills, Albert. You needn’t worry – your investment is quite safe.’

  ‘These are tough times, man. Costs have to be our main consideration. Any talk of wage increases could force the closure of the factory.’ He rose to leave. ‘God give you strength at this testing time.’ He grasped Peter’s hand in a warm, comforting clasp. A well-used hand, skilled at pressing the flesh and the heads of babies.

  Peter had never understood Sara’s respect for the old fraud, who always treated her with a patronising tenderness when he came to visit. Her manner towards him had been deferential, as if she was still his indebted niece.

  ‘When my father abandoned us we would have been destitute but for his kindness.’ Her voice had risen defensively whenever Peter had criticised him. On such occasions she sounded like Marjory, unable to mention Barry Tyrell’s name without biting deep into an old festering sore.

  Peter understood what it was like to be indebted to Albert Grant. Ten years previously, when Della Designs had been on the brink of liquidation, the politician had invested heavily in the company.

  ‘You’re my family,’ he said. ‘I always look after my own.’ But he never allowed Peter to forget that his money was responsible for Della Designs’ increased profits, though his investment in the company remained a secret. Jon Davern, who would become Della Designs’ accountant, and Conor Grant, the politician’s son and solicitor, handled the paperwork. Ben Layden and Harry Moore, two businessmen from Anaskeagh, were officially listed as shareholders. With this major cash injection Peter had persuaded the McKeevers to return from London, and Stewart had taken over as production manager of Della Designs.

  Peter had always regretted accepting the politician’s money. Far better to have walked away and flung the keys into his mother’s grave. Ghosts didn’t have the power to rise from the dead and reproach him, or so he believed in rational moments. He wondered how Della would react if she knew he now only owned 51 per cent of the company she’d worked so hard to build.

  ‘She’d turn somersaults in her grave.’ Connie McKeever had still been the factory supervisor during that troubled period. ‘It’s not the f
irst time you’ve had to make tough decisions.’ She’d cast her experienced eyes over the figures he’d showed her and shaken her head. ‘But on the last occasion you had Beth to help you. You lost a good business head when you let her go.’

  ‘I never let her go,’ he’d protested. ‘She resigned without notice and married your son. She never even—’

  ‘You let her go,’ Connie had repeated in a voice that could instantly quell a factory of boisterous woman. ‘And I’ll say no more than that on the subject.’

  The politician finished his drink and left. Unable to settle, Peter climbed the stairs and entered Sara’s bedroom. The wardrobe doors hung open. He was about to close them when he noticed a dress he had missed when he cleared out her clothes. He pressed the material to his face and breathed in the scent of her… Or perhaps that was only his imagination. The stored memory of a subtle perfume she had always exuded when she entered a room.

  He recognised the dress. She had worn it to Della Designs’ fiftieth anniversary celebration. Under the chandeliers in the Oldport Grand, the material had gleamed with the richness of a fine burgundy wine. Her creamy shoulders had been bare, her upswept hair held in place by an elaborate bronze comb. She had mingled with the guests, moving from one group to the next, remembering names, personal details, making the right enquiries about families and careers. How long had it taken Peter to realise she was playing a role, the perfect response for all occasions?

  The McKeevers had returned to Oldport some months previously and Beth, if she experienced any nostalgia for the past, showed no sign of it. She’d been a mother of two by then. The same commitment she had shown when working for his mother, and later for him, had been effortlessly transferred to her family.

  ‘Why won’t you come back and work for me?’ he’d asked, sitting next to her during the meal. He’d gestured to the guests surrounding them: factory and office staff, suppliers and buyers; people she had known and befriended during her years with Della Designs.

  ‘I’ve no interest in working outside my home,’ she’d said. ‘I came back for Sara’s sake. You know, and I know, that that’s the only reason I persuaded Stewart to accept your offer.’

  She was so different to Sara and yet he had loved them both. With Beth his passion had been strengthened by years of friendship whereas Sara had overpowered his senses the instant he’d met her.

  Love at first sight. He had never believed in the existence of such an all-consuming passion until she’d stood on Pier’s Point and filled his eyes. She had remained beyond his reach until they married, teasing him with phone calls in the middle of the night, her laughter beckoning, her voice softly provocative. In his arms she was pliable, a promise waiting to be fulfilled. They were married in Rome. Two strangers had witnessed their union. She’d wanted a quiet wedding with no family involvement and he agreed, relieved that he wouldn’t feel Beth’s reproachful eyes on his back when he spoke his vows.

  On their first night together, she’d come to him in a sheer white robe, the colour of chastity. Her eyes seemed enormous as she lay beneath him. Two bruises. There was nothing in her demeanour to suggest she did not welcome his mouth, his hands, his deep plunging need. Exquisite pleasure, staring down at her, devouring her with his eyes, ravishing her with his body.

  Shame set in as pleasure died. He had given her so little. She’d smiled, sleepy satisfaction, as if the spasms that had racked him had also sated her. She’d stretched back against the pillows, her young firm breasts jutting beneath the sheet, her gaze already reaching beyond him.

  ‘I will love you until the day I die,’ he’d promised. ‘And in whatever eternity comes afterwards.’

  ‘You make me sound like an addiction.’ She had laughed softly.

  ‘If that’s the case,’ he’d warned. ‘Don’t ever try to rehabilitate me.’

  They had returned from their honeymoon to Havenstone. Sunlight had spilled through the open doorway as he carried her over the threshold. She’d run her fingers along the embossed wallpaper, lightly touched the white roses on the hall table, stared upwards at the long, winding staircase.

  ‘Havenstone is so beautiful, Peter,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just as I imagined.’

  Later, in bed, she turned into his arms and murmured, ‘Melt me into your love, Peter. Never let me go.’

  Had he dreamt that moment? To melt was to be absorbed but Sara Wallace was ice, untouched by heat. He loved her. He hated her. How could two such strong emotions have coexisted without him losing his mind?

  The chill of the white room seeped into his bones. His grief for all he didn’t understand, and all he had lost, surfaced with such ferocity that he groaned aloud. He allowed the dress to slip from his hand and watched it coil like a question mark on the white bedspread.

  How lightly she danced on the night of the anniversary celebration. She’d been the most beautiful woman present. His opinion was objective. He was used to the company of elegant women. The fashion industry prostituted itself on such elegance and made its profits from the wish fulfilment it created. She’d danced with Stewart, whose bulky figure looked surprisingly imposing in an evening suit, and with her uncle, his hand splayed across her back as he’d guided her around the floor. Steve Maguire, the owner of Fashion Lynx, had been captivated by her attention. Poor deluded fool. He’d probably rung her afterwards, convinced that her interest in his opinions must carry a hint of sexual intrigue. Sara would have treated him with an icy politeness that stayed his words before they were uttered. But what did Peter know about anything? Maybe they shared a brief affair, amusing and stimulating her while it lasted. She would have cut Steve adrift as soon as he began to demand more from her, and he would have demanded more, striving to reach the deeper promise lurking behind her laughter.

  When she returned to Havenstone that night she’d demanded to know why he had never revealed his business partnership with her uncle. ‘Albert assumed I knew everything about his loan,’ she’d said. ‘How dare you keep that information from me?’

  ‘Why are you so upset?’ He’d been surprised by her agitation. She seldom showed any interest in Della Designs and, as the politician had insisted on secrecy, Peter had never considered discussing his investment with her. ‘It wasn’t a loan,’ he’d argued. ‘It was an investment and he’ll be well rewarded for it.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ she’d replied. ‘I’m your wife. I’ve a right to know about your financial dealings when they involve my family.’

  The row that had followed was bitter, her anger moving so far inwards that it seemed as if he had assumed another identity and it was easy for her to hate him. He’d never found a way to avoid such rows or the aftermath, when she would lie in bed without speaking, turning from him when he tried to comfort her, shaking her head vehemently if he suggested a psychologist, a psychiatrist, anyone who could help. Her tablets were hidden from him but he’d found a prescription once and realised she was on antidepressants. She’d refused to discuss the reasons with him. Then, somehow, drawing strength from deep within herself, she would grow strong again, absorbing herself in her work, trying to make amends to him in small ways that he had ceased to appreciate.

  When he’d moved into his father’s bedroom she’d accepted his decision, displaying neither regret nor relief. Alone in the room of a man who’d once collected paintings of saints with tortured expressions, their skin sculpted down to bare bone and illuminated from within, Peter had wondered if it was that same translucence that had drawn him to Sara, the hope that he could unveil her mystery and rouse her to the heights of his own passion.

  There had been other women. Brief affairs that had given him fleeting satisfaction but had also forced him to accept the abnormality of his relationship with his wife. For this reason such affairs ended cleanly, without regret. His marriage had nowhere to go yet he kept believing that his love for her would eventually triumph. How many times did he try? How many times did he fail? When did it cease to matter?

 
He hung her dress back in the wardrobe. Her mirrors glinted on the white walls. They looked mysterious, slightly decadent, promising much. He grimaced at the irony, at the juxtaposition: a bedroom of mirrors; a cold, unloving wife.

  She had collected them on her trips abroad, her firm voice haggling with traders in oriental marketplaces and on the cobbled streets of old European cities. He’d been with her when she bought the first one, a tiny mirror set into a lump of crystal. The street trader’s dark eyes had lit with pleasure when she haggled with him over the price he demanded for it.

  ‘The mirror of the soul,’ she’d said when she showed it to Peter. ‘Such a small lost soul.’

  Chapter 21

  The news that Marjory was spending Christmas in Kieran Grant’s handsome brownstone house was an enormous relief to Beth. Marjory, who had always spent Christmas in Havenstone, had vowed never to darken Peter’s door again. To invite her to Estuary View Heights would have meant uninviting Connie, who always spent Christmas Day with them. The thought of the two women meeting face to face was as unthinkable now as it had been all those painful years ago.

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through Christmas without my darling child,’ Marjory had said when she’d phoned. ‘Albert is taking care of everything. Where would I be without him these days?’

  Her thin, quavering voice had been like a nail on Beth’s skin. ‘Will you come and stay with us in the new year?’ she’d asked. A token gesture. She already knew the answer.

  Kieran Grant was a successful stockbroker. A Wall Street dandy with spotted bow ties and finely plucked eyebrows, he would treat Marjory with kindly condescension and she, impressed by his wealth, would find solace in his attention. Every Christmas, he sent Beth a personalised greeting card, a photograph of his family smiling their wide, white American smiles, accompanied by a computerised letter outlining their many achievements throughout the year. But the letter he wrote after Sara’s death was for her eyes only. It rambled nostalgically through the past. Sunshine days in Anaskeagh and endless games of tennis in the back garden of Cherry Vale. So be it. Everyone was entitled to their own reality.