“Aye, ye've made me happy indeed.”
She thrust on some clothes as he watched, then, like well-trained automatons, without thinking, they pressed the lever on the hand sanitizer dispenser hanging on the wall outside the nursery door, rubbed it through their fingers and entered. Zoë had forbidden them from entering without doing this. Just like an operating theater, half doctors, half parents.
As Dymphna thrust the squirming bodies into their munchkin clothes, she thought about who she would call for a drink. Who would have the night off? It was Thursday, so the Craiglooner would be giving away a free bag of peanuts with every third pint. Her mind rolled through the list of contacts on her phone, all those girls she still vaguely kept in touch with and who might not be shocked to finally hear from her, maybe Maire, maybe Ailish, maybe Maeve, and so excited was she about her surprising new freedom and all the fun she would have that day celebrating, the one person she forgot about calling was her father.
In the taxi on the way to Riddell Enterprises, the children squirmed and howled across their laps and gnawed at the ears and noses of their stuffed animals. Dymphna babbled on about all the job hunting she'd be doing once they dropped off the children. As if!
Rory thought back to the office manager, Eamonn. That afternoon, he had had to call Rory three times before Rory registered that he was calling him. “Mr. Penry-Jones! Penry-Jones!! Penry-Jones!”
“Och, that's me!” Rory had muttered, thrown down his pen, then scuttered over.
Rory had been surprised by his mother's choice of name for him. Zoë was usually spot on with her decisions; that's what had allowed her to grow such a substantial and successful company. But the name hadn't been well thought out. The very British Penry-Jones put people on edge, and not just the Catholics Rory worked with. The Protestants seemed to struggle when calling him Mr. Penry-Jones, also. The hyphenated name conjured up images of the landed gentry, foxhunts and monocles and somesuch. Rory thought, if Zoë were trying to make him seem one of the gang at the office, she should have chosen something like O'Reilly or Cassidy, something that would help him fit in. He feared his mother had been watching too many episodes of Spooks and Silk lately, and swanning over the actor Rupert Penry-Jones, though surely he was too young for her, or maybe not? And if Zoë were fawning over actors, Rory's thoughts branched off in another direction, perhaps that meant she was missing his father, now dead 15 years. Maybe she was looking for someone to comfort her in the relative still and and the definite damp of a Derry night? Little did he realize...
When Rory had approached Eamonn's desk, there was no introductory banter about the weather and the shocking heat of it, as might have been expected. This was due to either Eamonn's ambivalence to Rory, or the the climate controlled air of the building, or at least the Riddell Enterprises offices; Zoë wanted her workers—at least those closest to her—to work in comfort.
“We've been able to accommodate 'yer' wanes, if ye absolutely must have them here in the building. There's been a restructuring, and three places have opened up in the crèche.” It was clear Eamonn was smiling at him under duress. For once Rory didn't care, and he didn't even care about Brigetta and Susan's daggers he felt flying across the length of the room and plunging into his shoulder blades. His marriage was more important.
“Magic! Can I bring them over now? Or do we have to wait until tomorrow?”
“Is it that bad at home?”
“Aye.”
“If you must.” Then Eamonn turned to his computer, and Rory had run home.
“We're here!” Dymphna squealed. Rory was surprised. Normally the trip from home to the office took double the time. The driver had sped the car through the streets as if he were at LeMans. It must have been the smell. Dymphna hadn't wanted to change the children, not when there were people whose job it was to do that. Rory paid, and the parents clambered out of the taxi, their laps warm and damp.
The children had been deposited in the crèche, and Dymphna, practically trembling, as if she had just been released from prison, which perhaps she had, of a sort, covered Rory with kisses and raced towards the elevator and the world that awaited her. Or the pub at least. (Not that Rory knew.)
Rory was on his way towards his office on the other side of the floor. He was practicing a face for Brigetta and Susan which he hoped said, 'sorry, lasses, but me wanes is as needy as yers, and they're not vessels of sin, anyroad.' He was surprised to see his mother approaching him down the hallway with swift, purposeful strides. Her Anna Wintour-type bob, as usual, was perfect, her Chanel suit wrinkle-free, buttons glinting. Her face gleamed, and Rory was further surprised, maybe even alarmed, at the shade of lipstick she had expertly applied to her lips. Less subtle, less businesslike. A rich red that seemed almost...playful? Lusty? She held her briefcase in her right hand. A Coach overnight bag was slung across her right shoulder.
“Mamm—Mrs. Riddell! What brings ye here? Have they released ye from the hospital already? Should ye be back so soon?”
“The company can't run itself, Mr. Penry-Jones,” Zoë said. She looked around to ensure there were no eavesdroppers lurking, but it was easy to tell there weren't any. They were alone with the fluorescent strips and the rows of closed doors.
She leaned towards him there before the buttons of the elevator. “Though, actually, I will be leaving a bit early. I have that infernal interrogation with the police at 5:00 PM, and after that I have a charter plane from Derry Airport booked for 7:00 PM.”
“A plane? Where on earth are ye—?
“The commissioner's wife and I are quite pally, so I'm hoping to get interviewed first. I should have enough time to get to the airport on time.”
“But...where are ye away off to? Should ye not be up in bed resting?”
“I've something to tell you that might startle you, Shock you even.” She looked around the hallway. “Why are we discussing this in the hallway like some...common folk? This simply won't do. Let's go into my office so we can talk freely. I can always tell my PA we're discussing the company website you're working on.”
And so they went into her office, with its floor to ceiling windows that offered a stunning panorama of Derry at its best, from the sparkling River Foyle to the spire of St. Columb's Cathedral, to the clock of the Guildhall and the parapets and cannons of the City Walls. The sorry, sordid secret neighborhood of the Moorside was hidden, no sign of its graffitied walls, broken windows or the corners where gangs of hooded teens lurked with evil on their drug- and drink-addled minds. Zoë settled herself at the fortress of her desk on the throne of her empire, a Steelcase Leap chair, which swiveled and reclined in many directions but had been quite complicated to get the hang of. Rory sank into the brown leather armchair opposite.
“First,” she said, as if checking things off a list, “are the children in the crèche?”
“Aye. But how on earth do ye know—?”
“Eamonn rang me earlier to get my approval for three more applicants to be admitted. We must adhere to occupancy laws, you understand. I bent the rules on this occasion because one must be flexible to survive. And because it gave me an idea. A plan. And I'm now putting that plan into action.”
“What's this all about, hi? What are ye up to, Mammy?”
“Not here, Mr. Penry-Jones,” Zoë said, her eyes growing wide and her head jerking towards the door and the PA who sat at the computer beyond it. “Mrs. Riddell. Even in my office.” A variety of emotions seemed to cross her shiny face. Behind the Burberry frames, Rory thought he detected excitement, resolve, cunning...and could that possibly be a hint of shame? She spoke in a whisper. And she told him her plan. And her shocking secret. And about the nanny she had hired for the flights over to Leeds and back.
Rory's ears heard the words, but his brain struggled to comprehend them. When all doubt of what his mother had told him finally settled in the crevices of his mind, the plush leather he was sitting on seemed to disappear beneath his legs. His mother, the woman before him, was transf
ormed. Zoë Riddell was unrecognizable. A stranger. A gasp, a grunt spilled from his mouth as anger, shock, mortification and fear filled him.
“I appreciate,” his mother said, “how difficult this news might be for you. I want you, however, to control yourself, Mr. Penry-Jones. This is no time for emotion. It's time for logic. When we've received the intelligence from Leeds, we will know more specifically how to deal with a problem. In the event, perhaps the likely event, that a problem arises. But, Mr. Penry-Jones, we have the future of Riddell Enterprises to think about. I hope you can understand that. I've been thinking...I forgot about your sample. After the interview at the police station, there'll be no time to do it. So perhaps you should ask Eamonn for a break at 3:00 PM? I'll ring him ahead to make sure he approves of it. And then I will meet you at home.”
He finally spurt out, “What will I tell Dymphna, but?”
“What will you tell her? Not a word. Not one single word. For obvious reasons. Until all the results have come back. All of them, including my own. I've had a long, rather technical call with your Aunt Vera, who, as you know, works there. These tests are notorious for the results taking an age to arrive. But she assures me she can fast-track them, get them done in the least amount of time scientifically possible with their state-of-the art equipment. Fifty-four hours. Fifty-four hours and fifteen minutes, to be precise. Which means, taking into account the flight and getting from the airport to the lab, a few minutes to say hello, sign the appropriate forms and what have you,” she looked at her watch, “Saturday at 5:30 AM. We will have a look at the results together, and we will then discuss what needs to be done.”
“And what should I tell Dymphna when she sees the wanes isn't at home tonight?
“Tell them Grandmother Zoë wanted to take them out for, well, I don't know, use your imagination. A pizza or something, whatever children of that age enjoy.”
“But she'll never believe—”
“Hmm, yes. It does seem unlikely, I know. But your wife never was the brightest bulb in the pack. I think she'll just be relieved to have them out of her sight for one night.”
Rory agreed with this and gave a quick nod. Then his face scrunched up with discomfort.
“I still can't believe ye...ye...och, the image I've in me brain now! I kyanny, kyanny...”
He looked like he might be ill all over the leather.
Zoë's face grew flush with blood. “A moment of madness, I admit. Very unprofessional. Reckless even. Obviously. But what's been done is done, and I must deal with the results. We must deal with the results. Please believe me, Ro—Mr. Penry-Jones, I'm so sorry about this.”
Her eyes appealed to him. And finally the anger arose in him.
“What I don't understand is...why the flimmin hell don't ye...ye...get rid of it? Of all the people to...to...procreate with! I'm disgusted! Revolted!”
“Mr. Penry-Jones!” Zoë was affronted. “As I said, I don't expect you to understand. It's not logical at all. Emotions rarely are, which is why I usually pride myself on avoiding them. They...muddy everything. I myself am shocked at what I've done, and at the decision I've taken now. But it seems a...well, a blessing, of sorts.” Here she gave a high-pitched laugh Rory's ears had never encountered coming from his mother's usually cogent lips, and she waved her hand in a dismissive, playful way he had never seen either. “Oh, yes, I know I usually have no truck with such spiritual concerns. But perhaps you can see where I'm coming from?”
And now she was using strange idioms more suited to Americans and their therapy sessions. If she mentioned 'closure,' he was going to scream.
“What did them hooligans do to ye in Final Spinz? Or what drugs did them nurses pump into yer brain in the hospital? Ye're not me mammy no more! Ye're like one of them pod people from that sci-fi movie!” He squirmed uncomfortably on the chair. “I don't know who ye are no more! Ye're away in the head, so ye are!”
“Ah, but my dear Mr. Penry-Jones,” Zoë said, and her voice was soft, kind, strangely like that of a mother at long last, “do you not realize...this is who I was, this is how I felt, all those years ago, twenty four of them, when I heard you were growing within me?”
Rory screamed and ran out of the room. Zoë's office door slammed shut. The PA stared after him, wondering what on earth the problems with the website could possibly be. She rose from her chair and rapped on Zoë's door. There were a few moments of silence, and then Mrs. Riddell deigned to call out, “Thank you, Evelyn. But I'm...fine.”
As Evelyn sat back down and faced her computer screen she wondered...had it been her imagination? Was it possible? Had Mrs. Riddell's voice been trembling from...was her boss actually...? No. Impossible. Zoë Riddell never cried. Her fingers clacked away on her keyboard, but her mind was lost in thought.
CHAPTER 18
Braving the heat, they all made their way to the police precinct for the interrogation at 5 PM.
Fionnuala had to take the bus into town. All forty-five minutes of the journey, which had taken an hour and ten minutes because a flock of sheep took their time crossing the road. Siofra, bathed as much as she could be from the cold water of the sink, walked from her house. Nurse Scadden had indeed been given the day off work, and she also walked from her house, which was just around the corner. Damien had insisted on accompanying Bridie. He had gotten into the habit lately of never letting her out of his sight when she went anywhere except work. While others might have found this stifling and controlling, Bridie was happy; it made her feel secure. Damien loved her so much, he couldn't bear for her not to be by his side. Except when she was slaving at the Kebabalicious. He told her he would wait for her outside the police station. Inspector McLaughlin had also told Bill Ming to come in for an interview, to see if Bill could shine any light on why his mother had chosen just that moment to visit the dry cleaners. Bill, for whatever reason, had brought along his wife Greta, Mrs. Ming's spinster sister Keeva, his son Nollaig, and Nollaig's wife Viona, and they had brought along their three-year old grandchild Ealga. They had all walked together in a hungover mob, as much as they could walk with their hangovers; the wake was still continuing at the Ming house without them. Anne Marie O'Dell, the other Final Spinz employee, had taken the bus from Creggan Heights, even though it was quite a simple twenty-minute walk into the city center, but she had corns and couldn't stand the notion of making the trip on sweaty, corn-covered feet. McLaughlin had discovered who the cleaning woman of the dry cleaners was, a Pole called Agnieska Something-Unpronounceable, and had thrown her in for good measure as well, told her to come in. Perhaps she could shed some light on the matter. Zoë had hired a nanny for the trip to Leeds, and the woman, apparently a Ms. Forrester, had met her outside the Riddell Enterprises crèche at 4:30PM (Zoë couldn't bring herself to enter the room), and then Zoë had had the nanny bundle up Keanu, Beeyonsay and Greenornge, and load them into the back seat of one of the company cars, an older model black Kia, that would follow Zoë to the police station and then on to Derry Airport. Zoë had instructed the driver to park in some alley around the corner of the station, and the nanny to drape some blankets around the children because, even with the tinted windows, she didn't want inquisitive eyes, especially Fionnuala's, to see the children in the back seat. She herself took the most recently-purchased company car, a black BMW, to the police station, one eye on her expensive watch. She hoped she wasn't positioned close to Fionnuala. She wouldn't be able to look the woman in the eye. And, all too aware of who the father of the new life forming inside her womb was, who could blame her?
Outside the station, they all started to converge on the front door.
Inside the station, at 4:55 PM, Inspector McLaughlin, conscious of every click of the second hand of his own cheap watch, grabbed the elbow of a minion who was scurrying past his desk.
“Have we received any hits in the database from the fingerprints?” McLaughlin barked into the PC's startled, sweaty face. The officer was clutching a bunch of files and three bags of evidence with one han
d, a fistful of reports in the other.
“Fingerprints?” he yelped. “What fingerprints, sir?”
“From Final Spinz.”
“I-I'll check, sir,” the PC said, rushing off, anguish on his face.
“Hurry, man! Hurry!” McLaughlin called at his back, then turned and his fingers flew over his keyboard as quickly as they could. Around him, officers raced through the aisles around the desks, barked out to one other in high-pitched speedy voices, cartoon-like, as everyone was all too aware of the time flying by. Three hours to do everything they had to do. And there was so much.
One might well ask why all these many witnesses/suspects had to converge on the police station at the same time. It was going to be as packed as the Top-Yer-Trolley on the first day of the January sales. There was a reason for this, and a reason for everyone in the station running around like lunatics, and it had nothing to do with McLaughlin's secret plan for the witnesses. They couldn't stagger the times of the interrogations, or the taking of fingerprints for either elimination or conviction because, just the week before, PSNI budget cuts had shortened the Moorside police station opening hours from the shocking six hours a day to the unbelievable three. And this being the crime-ridden Moorside, there were many, many other on-going investigations besides the hold up of the dry cleaners and Mrs. Ming's manslaughter (as it was now officially being termed) to deal with, many more witnesses to interview or interrogate, many more fingerprints to take, mug shots to take, drunks to shove into the drunk tanks. Everything had to be done with great haste and under incredible pressure during those all-important three hours. The harried police officers, feeling like Kebabalicious workers during the lunch rush, did the best they could in the limited time now afforded them.
Static Cling (The Irish Lottery Series Book 5) Page 19