Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense

by Laura Elliot

  The elderly woman rose from her chair and joined her.

  ‘A strange class of a painting, wouldn’t you agree?’ she said, nodding at the moonlight scene.

  Eva muttered something inconsequential, wondering if she was a proud relation or a sales agent, but the woman volunteered no further information. She moved closer, a clinging whiff of expensive perfume and smoke on her skin. She asked Eva’s opinion of Anaskeagh. Eva told her what she wanted to hear. Yes, it was indeed a pretty town.

  ‘Can I buy you a coffee before you leave?’ The jacket of the woman’s crumpled trouser suit was stained. Her heavily made-up face had the same slack appearance and her scalp was visible through dyed blonde hair. The image was too hard for a woman of her years, keeping time at bay with too many rings and pearls the size of small eggs around her neck. Her old hands remained by her sides, hanging listlessly. There was something so pathetic about those loose limp hands with their garish rings, too heavy for frail fingers, that Eva nodded. The woman clicked her fingers imperiously in the direction of the counter.

  ‘Another coffee and scone, Hatty,’ she said. ‘Put it on my bill – and make sure the coffee is hot this time.’

  A small woman with a mop of startling red hair emerged from behind the coffee urn to glower across at them.

  ‘Keep your castanets to yourself, madam,’ she snapped. ‘You’ll be served when I’m good and ready.’

  ‘Staff nowadays – impossible.’ Eva’s companion sighed.

  She made small talk until the coffee was served, shaking her head in disapproval when she heard that Eva had moved from Wicklow to Dublin.

  ‘An atrocious accent,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to hear you haven’t acquired it. My grandchildren could be talking a different language for all the sense I get out of them.’ She dismissed her grandchildren with a snap of her hard mouth.

  Eva thought of Brigid Loughrey, who had listened when her grandchildren spoke, hearing their words, not their accents. This elderly woman didn’t have the attributes of a true grandmother. No soft flesh or hidden treats in large handbags. She ignored her coffee, the butter melting into the scone as she talked about a boutique she’d once owned, designer brands only. She listed designer names, looking at Eva for reaction, her sharp eyes summing up her jacket and trousers; cheap labels that would never have hung on her rails. She had sold her boutique – too many chain stores and shopping centres to compete against. Too many housewives in tracksuits, no style these days. She cast a reproachful glance towards a woman in a shapeless jumper and baggy trousers. Eva discreetly checked her watch, regretting her impulse to linger.

  ‘Do you have relatives in Anaskeagh?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No.’ Eva didn’t know if she’d lied.

  ‘Are you a photographer?’ She glanced at the camera lying on the table.

  ‘Purely amateur. I wanted to take some shots of the headland.’

  As the evening light flooded through the window, the woman’s frailness was thrown into sharp relief. She remained silent when Eva rose to her feet. They shook hands. Eva turned back at the door but the woman was staring into space and didn’t glance in her direction.

  She drove past the brightly lit shopping centre with its arches and multi-storey car park. The flags of many nationalities fluttered from the courtyard of The Anaskeagh Arms. She crossed the bridge, where spotlights reflected on the river and the tall clock face marked time.

  Chapter 42

  Cherry Vale was decorated with congratulatory banners and balloons printed with the words Albert Grant. Minister for Indigenous Enterprise. Once Beth had danced in this room, her steps faltering, chasing the notes her father had played. The room had sparkled with Christmas lights and festive baubles. Outside, newborn pups had whimpered… She allowed her breathing to slow down. This was a game of control and there could only be one victor.

  Marjory slumped in an armchair, a gin and tonic untouched beside her. Since she’d sold her boutique she drifted aimlessly through each day. She was usually in her dressing gown when Beth called, the air in the kitchen musty and stale, spilled milk and too many cigarettes.

  After a few minutes of strained conversation with her mother, she wandered outside, searching for a familiar face. Stewart was talking intently to a man from the ACII and her uncle was surrounded by his supporters. Fleshy men who dined well and had a keen awareness of fine wines. Silver lights twinkled from trees and candles fluttered among the flower beds. The tennis court was still in place but the shed, where Sadie had once rested with her newborn pups, had become a high-domed glass conservatory. Tonight it had been converted into a bar yet still… Beth pressed her lips together and headed purposefully towards a statuesque woman in a backless dress, a dramatic silver choker around her neck.

  ‘Your uncle’s looking mighty pleased with himself tonight.’ Nuala O’Neill kept her voice low as she tilted her glass in his direction. ‘Lining your pockets at the nation’s expense is a really good apprenticeship if you want to be a minister.’

  ‘Some say he’s done an excellent job up to now.’ Beth too spoke softly.

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Those in the know.’

  ‘The Anaskeagh Mafia you mean.’ They laughed quietly together, relaxed in each other’s company.

  A spontaneous friendship had developed between them when they’d met in Nuala’s gallery shortly after Beth’s arrival in Anaskeagh. They shared the common bond of outsiders who were part of the community by birth but separated by experiences and finding it difficult to reclaim their space.

  They watched the minister as he moved effortlessly through the crowd, shaking hands, kissing cheeks.

  ‘Have you spoken to Derry Mulhall yet?’ Nuala leaned close to Beth.

  ‘I called twice,’ Beth replied. ‘He never answers.’

  ‘Keep trying. You’ll be interested in what he has to say.’

  ‘Does he ever ask about his son?’

  ‘He would – if I gave him the opportunity.’ Nuala smiled grimly. ‘I don’t.’ She raised her voice as the minister moved from his circle of supporters and strode towards them. ‘If you’re talking to Lindsey tell her to call and see me when she’s in town again. I’ve sold another one of her paintings.’

  ‘Lindsey is a most talented young lady.’ Albert moved smoothly between them. ‘I’ve seen her work displayed in your wonderful gallery, Nuala. Mark my words, she’ll make a name for herself one of these days.’ He smiled steadily at Beth. ‘That’s if she manages to keep a sensible head on her shoulders.’ He moved on, his hand outstretched towards his next constituent.

  Lindsey was repeating her Leaving. If she achieved the necessary points next year she would study computer science. Painting was a hobby, a convenient way to earn extra money in Nuala’s gallery. ‘Painting by numbers,’ she called her landscapes, deriding the pretty views she painted yet spending all her spare time working on them. Genetic roots sprouting.

  Jean Grant appeared at the patio door to announce that food was being served. In the main drawing room Conor exploded bottles of champagne and proposed a toast to his father. As the glasses were raised Marjory rose unsteadily from the armchair and clapped her hands.

  ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow.’ Her reedy voice trembled off-key. The guests, embarrassed, began to sing along with her. When the song ended she clawed the air in confusion before she sank back down again, breathing heavily.

  ‘Poor Marjory. The medication she’s on doesn’t mix with alcohol but she never listens,’ Jean said quietly to Beth. ‘She’s an incredibly lonely woman. We hoped when your family moved here she would begin to relax but she’s as wound up as ever.’ She paused diplomatically. ‘Do you think you could persuade her to leave now, for her own sake?’

  ‘Of course.’ Beth crossed the room and took her mother’s hand, suddenly moved by the desolate expression on her face. ‘Marjory, if you’re feeling tired I can drive you home.’

  ‘Why are you always
trying to ruin things?’ Marjory sat ramrod straight on her chair. ‘I’m enjoying myself. Leave me alone.’

  ‘It’s no trouble—’ Beth stopped abruptly when the politician’s arm encircled her waist.

  ‘I’ll drive her home when she’s ready to go,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘I’ve always taken care of my own and I’m not going to stop now.’

  Beth had fantasised about his death. A sharp knife between his shoulder blades. A pillow pressed hard against his face while he slept. She had the strength and the will to do such things then kneel at peace beside his coffin. But they would bury him with full honours, read tributes over his grave, write obituaries in newspapers. She wanted him to die slowly, loudly, aggressively. She wanted him to be the headline story and the inside page. She wanted journalists jogging his elbows, rooting in company records, researching, snooping, demanding answers. She wanted flashbulbs chasing his car and cameras on the plinth of Dáil Éireann. She wanted a modern-day execution. Death by a thousand media knives.

  She parked her car close to the hedgerow surrounding Derry Mulhall’s cottage. Generations of his family had once owned the land upon which the Anaskeagh industrial park now stood. Apart from a spiral of smoke drifting listlessly from the chimney, there was little sign of life within the flaking, mud-spattered walls. As before, the front door was closed, the curtains drawn.

  Occasionally, Derry left his cottage and headed to the Anaskeagh Arms. On such occasions he talked too much. He’d been beaten up one night and left unconscious in an alley. He’d survived but not to tell the tale. After that, he drank more quietly, mainly in his stale kitchen in the company of his dog.

  After knocking four times and receiving no reply apart from a dog barking, Beth was about to walk away when he opened the door.

  ‘You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to sell me something, missus.’ He held the dog by the collar but Beth suspected his grip would loosen at the slightest provocation.

  ‘I only want a few minutes of your time, Mr Mulhall,’ she replied. ‘I work in the Anaskeagh industrial park.’

  His eyes glittered. ‘That shower of fucking parasites. Get back where you came from. Fucking blow-ins!’

  ‘I’m originally from Anaskeagh,’ she said. ‘You used to know my father, Barry Tyrell.’

  ‘By God, I did.’ For an instant his face softened then settled back into belligerent lines. ‘And your mother too, a rare bitch of a woman. Still is, from all accounts. You’re Albert Grant’s niece then?’

  ‘We can’t choose our relatives, Mr Mulhall, although we can choose to disown them. You look like your son. Nuala O’Neill showed me his photograph. It was taken in Tokyo.’

  He moved from the shelter of his doorway and pushed his face forward. ‘He’s not my fucking son and it’s none of your fucking business anyway. Don’t you dare come here making accusations or I’ll set this beast on you.’

  ‘I’m not making accusations. I’m here to talk about the sale of your land.’

  He pointed towards the gate, furrows of anger deepening in his cheeks. ‘The gate’s that direction, missus. Make sure you close it on your way out.’

  ‘Who can you talk to any more, Mr Mulhall?’ She stood firmly before him. ‘From what I hear you’ve been well and truly muffled.’

  ‘No one muffles Derry Mulhall. May their balls roast in hell for trying.’

  ‘I heard you were badly beaten up.’

  ‘Broken bones mend.’

  ‘What a pity you didn’t realise your land would be rezoned from agricultural to commercial use so soon after you sold it. Imagine the profit you’d have made if you’d known the ACII were interested in building on it.’

  ‘What’s your game, missus?’ he demanded. ‘If you’re here to stir up trouble I’ve already told you where to find the gate.’

  ‘You were robbed, Mr Mulhall,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows that for a fact but no one is saying it out loud. I came here this evening to see if there was some way of exposing the truth. But if you’re not prepared to talk I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  He threw back his strong red neck and laughed. ‘Jesus, missus, but you’re soft in the head if that’s the way you’re thinking. There’s stories I could tell that would make your hair stand up straight but what’s the sense in being dead? I’ll be there soon enough and I’d prefer to do it with the help of the bottle rather than them shaggers in the Anaskeagh Mafia. What did you say your name is?’

  ‘I didn’t, but it’s Beth McKeever.’

  ‘A quare sort of a niece you are – out here trying to make trouble for your uncle. You’d better come in seeing as how you’ve nosed your way into my business. But I’m not promising anything mind.’

  The smoky kitchen caught against her breath. The dog, once released, cowered under a chair, obviously well used to dodging this surly man’s boot. A bowl of eggs and a half empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table. He offered her tea and a boiled egg. She accepted. The egg tasted like rubber. He poured whiskey and watched while she drank it neat.

  ‘What the fuck is Nuala’s lad doing in Tokyo?’ he asked.

  ‘Designing skyscrapers,’ Beth replied and put a newspaper cutting featuring his son’s achievements on the table. Derry pretended not to notice.

  As she suspected, her uncle had never received planning permission for his furniture factory. Different times, said Derry. A few pounds in the hand and no questions asked.

  ‘I know your land was eventually sold on to the ACII but who bought it from you?’ she asked.

  ‘Talk to Kitty Grimes if you want your answer to that,’ he replied. ‘A more God-fearing woman never walked the streets of Anaskeagh and she knows what she heard from the mouth of that crook. Check out Hatty Beckett as well. She won’t need much prompting to talk about Albert Grant. A few rum and cokes should do the trick there. Good luck, missus. I don’t envy you your job.’

  Beth left the newspaper clipping on the table. He shoved it out of sight behind a clock. She did not ask for it back; he didn’t offer it.

  Kitty Grimes had been Conor Grant’s office cleaner but now she cleaned for TrendLines. A quiet, nervous woman, she’d arrived early for work one evening and overheard an argument between father and son taking place behind closed doors. The politician had been shouting about delays in a land transaction and she’d known immediately that they’d been talking about Derry’s land. Liam, her husband, had worked in Albert’s furniture factory until its closure. Not a word to the workers, no warning, no redundancy payments, nothing. Liam had died soon afterwards. Her mouth trembled when she mentioned his name. His life snuffed out with the stress of it all, and who cared at the end of the day? Certainly not Albert Grant and, knowing this, she did something she would never have considered doing under normal circumstances. Not in her wildest dreams, she added, her hands trembling when she showed Beth the document she had photocopied when she was alone in the office. She had also shown it to the farmer. Soon afterwards, Derry had been beaten up for talking too loudly about corruption in high places. Kitty had remained tight-lipped ever since.

  Hatty, her tongue as sharp as ever, sat high on a bar stool in The Anaskeagh Arms and ordered a rum and coke.

  ‘Transparency!’ she snarled at Beth. ‘Now that’s a fine new word altogether. For what it’s worth, your uncle is about as transparent as the arse on an elephant.’ She took a powder compact from her bag, inspected her face and applied a streak of vermillion lipstick. It matched her hair perfectly. Hatty Beckett was determined not to grow old graciously.

  A modern shopping centre stood in place of her once-famous chip shop on the corner of River Mall. Hatty had been the stumbling block in its development, the only tenant who refused to move from the building. Her lease still had eight years to run and she’d refused her landlord’s offer to buy it back. Visits from a health inspector began soon afterwards. Rats were discovered in the storeroom and her chip shop was closed down overnight.

  ‘I know Albert Grant wa
s behind it,’ she said. ‘He was in cahoots with Ben Layden, the developer. That pair are as close as the hairs on a dog’s coat.’

  Little stories oozing quietly from the mouths of little people. Until Beth arrived in Anaskeagh no one was listening.

  Justin Boyd, the reporter from Elucidate, was waiting when Beth parked her car at the foot of Anaskeagh Head. Sheep grazed nearby and a flock of crows wheeled over the empty fields. They picked their way through the long grass, heading towards the ruins of an old cattle shed. She disliked his lips, the pompous mouth that tightened angrily each time his fine woollen trousers snagged on briars. In the shelter of the walls she began to talk. Justin made no effort to hide his impatience.

  ‘Let me get a grip on this,’ he said, interrupting her to check over his notes. ‘Your sources are an alcoholic farmer and a chip-shop owner whose business was forced to close because she broke hygiene regulations. The office cleaner who claims to have incriminating evidence could work if she’s willing to go public―’

  ‘She’s very nervous,’ warned Beth. ‘You must appreciate that around here you don’t make accusations about Albert Grant too loudly. He can be a powerful enemy. But I guarantee that once you scratch below the surface you’ll be surprised at what people know and are prepared to reveal.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering why you’re so interested in destroying his reputation?’ He regarded her suspiciously.

  ‘He’s a sleaze merchant, always has been, and he controls most of the board of the ACII. The industrial estate was supposed to be located in Clasheen, which has a far superior infrastructure. Instead – overnight – the location was changed. We’ve constant problems with entry and exit, not to mention potholes. The communications system and our water distribution is not fit for purpose yet no one complains in case their funding is delayed. And that’s never paid on time. I could go on…’ Her carefully prepared scenario was falling apart. She sounded too anxious, a vindictive woman with an axe to grind.