In My Mother's Name: A totally addictive and emotional psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  Shortly afterwards, Christy had suffered his heart attack. Being weakened had not suited him. His contrariness had convinced Davina that change was needed. After some persuasion he agreed to share a constituency clinic on Main Street with his son and have his old one converted into The Lodge. Davina had had a free hand to plan the entire refurbishment of both dwellings and the new-look Hillcrest featured regularly in interior design and architectural magazines.

  ‘You’ve done a wonderful job, Davina,’ said Adele. ‘It’s hard to believe this was once a house of prayer.’

  ‘Prayer?’ Davina’s long eyelashes fluttered. ‘I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Hillcrest was never a church.’

  ‘I realise that. I was referring to the Sodality of Thorns and Atonement? They used to gather here for their meetings.’

  ‘My house had nothing to do with that sodality. Where on earth did you come by that strange notion?’

  ‘Oh, I thought this was where they met. I’ve been doing research in the Reedstown Review. Rosemary Mooney was a member of the sodality. She was their secretary or, maybe, their PR person. She gave her address as number ten but the house was called River View then.’

  ‘Ah, now I understand. The Lodge used to be called River View. To be honest, it was something of a shack when Rosemary Mooney lived there. My father-in-law bought it from her.’

  ‘So, was this house always here?’ Adele’s arm embraced the spacious kitchen and the open-plan living area beyond it.

  ‘It was built for my father-in-law and he lived here until he moved into The Lodge. I guess it’s easier to live in smaller spaces when one gets older.’

  ‘I guess.’ Adele sounded unconvinced. ‘Does that mean the land on which Hillcrest is built also once belonged to Rosemary Mooney?’

  ‘Land?’ Davina, surprised by the question, laughed, dismissively. ‘It was more like a stretch of wasteland and, yes, Hillcrest was built on it. Why do you ask?

  ‘I’m just curious about Rosemary Mooney’s background and her involvement in the sodality.’

  ‘Why on earth would anyone be interested in watching a documentary about those weirdos? We used to call them the Thorns.’

  ‘People are always interested in cults and the impact the leaders have on the lives of their followers. Their founder Gloria Thornton came from Reedstown.’ Adele sipped her coffee and a shudder, delicate enough to be imagined, passed through her.

  ‘Honestly, Adele. You’re way off track here. To call Gloria Thornton the leader of a cult is to stretch the truth by a mile.’

  ‘How would you define such a leader?’

  ‘That crowd in Guyana who followed what’s-his-name…?’ Davina clicked her fingers. ‘Jim Jones, wasn’t it? He led his followers into a mass suicide pact? And Charles Manson with his gang of crazies. You’re not trying to compare Gloria Thornton to those guys.’

  ‘I’m not making that comparison. Those movements were extreme. But Gloria also had an impact on her followers and that had spin-off consequences. Did you know her?’

  ‘I met her a few times. She was always travelling, helping people in crisis and setting up branches of her solidarity.’

  ‘Are you aware that she ran a mother and baby home?’

  Davina shrugged. ‘It’s so long ago, I can’t remember.’

  ‘What about Rosemary’s daughter? Marianne. Do you remember her?’

  Davina controlled an involuntary grimace. The atmosphere had changed and the kitchen felt clammy, as if the last heat of the day was pressing too hard against the patio doors.

  ‘What has she got to do with your documentary?’

  ‘Marianne was taken from here and kept in that home.’

  ‘Taken?’ Surely she had misheard.

  ‘Taken against her wishes by the Thorns,’ Adele replied. ‘I want to include her story in my documentary about this cult.’ The bitter bite of the word, her expression hardening as she stared back at Davina. ‘She must have grown up in The Lodge. I’d like to find out what I can about her.’

  Her instincts had been right. Adele Foyle was trouble in the making. The idea of Christy being associated with the Thorns horrified her.

  ‘If it’s your intention to feature my father-in-law’s home as the headquarters of what you insist on calling a cult, then think again,’ Davina said. ‘As his parliamentary assistant, it’s my responsibility to uphold and protect his reputation.’

  ‘I’m a sensitive documentary maker.’ She stared around Davina’s gleaming kitchen, where everything had a place and purpose, an order. ‘There’s no reason why your family’s reputation should be jeopardised in any way.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you any further. I know nothing about a mother and baby home, nor can I tell you anything about Marianne Mooney.’ This conversation was going nowhere and she had wasted enough time entertaining someone whose motives were definitely suspect. ‘I’ve to attend an important meeting this evening, so if you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘Of course.’ Adele immediately nodded and stood. ‘Forgive me, I’ve taken up so much of your time.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude but I must insist that you also leave Hillcrest out of your documentary.’ Davina made no effort to sound apologetic. ‘My husband and I take our privacy very seriously.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Adele slung the backpack onto her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Hillcrest. It’s probably not that important in the overall story I have to investigate.’

  Davina waited by the front door until she had driven away. She caught herself chewing the edge of her nail and linked her fingers together. Adele Foyle had been polite and quietly spoken. She had said all the right things about Hillcrest and her reassurances about being a sensitive documentary maker had a ring of truth. But Davina lived by her instincts and she could almost hear them screaming a warning at her. Trouble had entered her house and left its mark on the pristine interior; it was invisible as yet but she had a niggling fear that it could rise, in time, to thumbprint the future.

  The meeting in the Loyvale Hotel had been arranged by a group of Reedstown residents. They referred to themselves as ‘Old Reedstowners’ and were objecting to what they considered to be the unbridled growth of the village. The meeting was also well attended by those in favour of extending development outwards and onward. Keith and his father had planned to attend but their flight from Beijing had been delayed. Some air controllers’ strike, probably the French protesting again, Keith said when he rang from the airport. He sounded frustrated, impatient. The trade mission had been successful. Deals were done, contracts signed. Wasting time at an airport was anathema to him and to Christy, who believed that local politics was the bedrock of success on election day. Davina was expected to shine in their absence.

  Dynamic as always in her red jacket and matching shoes, her heels adding to her imposing height, she was so impressive that one of the attendees asked when she was going to run for office. This raised a hoot of alarm from the politicians who had attended the meeting and enthusiastic applause from both sides of the divide.

  ‘You played a blinder in there tonight.’ Julie Thornton was waiting for her at the end of the meeting. ‘Both sides have gone home convinced they won the argument. Keith couldn’t have wooed them any better. As for Christy, he would simply have turned the meeting into his own personal soapbox.’

  ‘Thanks, Julie.’ Davina relaxed as they walked towards the foyer. ‘They were both furious over missing the meeting, but at least the trade mission was successful.’

  ‘I was surprised Christy went with him. He should be taking things easier.’

  ‘You know Christy. He never misses a bunfight. To be honest, he was just there for his contacts. Keith did all the heavy lifting. Thanks to him, he’s been able to offer those small enterprises an invaluable opportunity to establish new accounts in a global marketplace.’ She was beginning to sound like one of Keith’s constituency speeches, which was not surprising, considering she was the author of them.


  The meeting had lasted longer than expected and the armchairs in the foyer were empty, apart from one located close to the exit. Davina’s step slowed when she recognised the occupant. Adele Foyle had changed from jeans into a short, pale-green dress. Her black hair, loosened from a ponytail, tumbled over her suntanned shoulders. A cup of coffee on the table beside her, long legs crossed, she was immersed in the book she was reading. Anxious to avoid her, Davina quickened her step and was just level with her when Julie spoke again. Her voice attracted Adele’s attention. She looked up from the book and, on seeing Davina, she smiled hesitantly, as if she expected another rebuke.

  ‘We meet again,’ she said.

  ‘We do indeed.’ Davina’s smile felt too stretched to be genuine, but Christy claimed a charismatic smile was an essential element of a politician’s arsenal.

  ‘I hope your meeting went well.’ Adele’s expression softened and the book slipped unnoticed to the floor when she rose to her feet. Remembering Reedstown, a local history by a local author. Davina recognised the cover.

  Up close, Adele Foyle did not look quite so self-assured. Her eyelids were slightly red-rimmed and a slight puffiness under her eyes suggested she had been crying.

  ‘It was an important discussion but it went on way too long.’ Davina had no intention of prolonging the conversation but Julie had bent to pick up the book.

  ‘Thank you,’ Adele nodded as Julie handed it back to her and both women glanced at Davina, expecting her to introduce them.

  ‘A pleasure meeting you again, Adele.’ Davina’s grip on Julie’s arm warned her to keep walking.

  ‘Nice-looking girl,’ said Julie as they headed towards the exit. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s a documentary maker.’

  ‘Oh, that’s interesting. Why didn’t you introduce me?’

  ‘Be thankful I didn’t. She wants to make a documentary about Gloria.’

  ‘You can’t be serious. Why would anyone want to drag all that stuff up again?’ Julie glanced back over her shoulder at Adele, then stopped just in time to avoid crashing into the swing doors.

  Davina shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘She called at Hillcrest. Apparently, she found some information on Rosemary Mooney in the Review archives. Remember her?’

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘Marianne Mooney’s mother.’

  ‘Oh, my God! That poor kid.’

  ‘Poor kid? Is that how you remember her?’

  ‘Yes, it is actually. All that slut naming and jeering. To be honest, I always feel ashamed when I think about it.’

  ‘Then don’t think about it,’ Davina advised her. ‘We were just kids.’

  ‘We were seventeen. What on earth was going on in our heads? It was like we had all been affected by a contagion.’

  ‘Contagion is a bit dramatic, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Chinese whispers, then? She was only fifteen. She didn’t deserve the reputation she acquired.’

  ‘Come on, Julie. Take off the rose-tinted glasses. Marianne Mooney never acted like a fifteen-year-old and, truth be told, she was a slut. She was probably rebelling against her mother’s religious mania. Did you know that the Thorns used to hold their meetings in Christy’s place? Remember when it was River View?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘She’s actually claiming that Marianne Mooney was kidnapped and enslaved in that mother and baby home your mother-in-law used to run. Like it was some kind of Magdalene laundry. At least that’s the spin she wants to put on it.’

  ‘Liam won’t like that. He’s so protective about his mother’s reputation.’

  ‘As he’s every right to be.’ Davina zapped her car and air-kissed her friend’s cheek. ‘So good to see you again, Julie. You and Liam must come over for lunch some Sunday, and bring Stephanie, of course.’

  ‘That sounds like a plan. We’ll do so as soon as Stephanie comes back from France.’ Julie waved and headed towards her own car.

  Both knew it wouldn’t happen but such promises held the last remnants of their friendship together.

  A contagion… a Chinese whisper… Driving back to Hillcrest, Davina tried to banish the memory of Marianne Mooney, fifteen years old and pregnant. Bambi eyes that looked too big for her skinny face. Old-fashioned, second-hand clothes and a reputation that made her the butt of bullies, Davina being one of them. Such a strange, hurtful time. One she preferred not to remember. Marianne Mooney was dead and long gone from their lives. She had no idea why Adele Foyle’s presence in Reedstown should threaten her but, like that snake, trouble could sometimes be too slippery to grasp.

  20 Adele

  The house Adele rented had flooded during the winter storms when the Loy overflowed. Mould had left the occasional blue fingerprint on the walls and the landlord, who was willing to rent it cheaply to her, had apologised for the faint yet persistent smell of damp permeating the rooms. Otherwise, Brooklime was perfect for her needs. The village was too unsettling. Too many faces to scrutinise, appraise, judge. Who were these men? Did they have a history that was herstory? Stop it… stop it… Her mind screamed a warning. Concentrate… concentrate… stop scratching at an open wound, appraising strangers, wondering if they had known her mother, damaged her, destroyed her.

  Liam Thornton’s home and business addresses were easily accessed, as was his email. Acquiring information was not a problem. Adele had read everything she could find about his company. His business acumen, his risk-taking, the growth of his property portfolio. His ruthless pursuit of journalists through the courts if he believed he had been slandered. She checked out his house. Unlike Hillcrest, it was a secluded dwelling at the end of a curved driveway, its entrance guarded by spiked gates, remotely controlled. One evening, Adele parked her car close to the entrance and waited to see if he would appear. She was uneasily aware that cars and people did not loiter with intent on this road of segregated wealth. If they dared do so, she suspected that a squad car would soon arrive and an officious police officer would demand to know the reason why. She glimpsed him driving past but lacked the nerve to leave her car and approach him when he stopped in front of the gates.

  Bella, the receptionist at LXT Properties, was polite but unbending each time Adele rang. I’ll tell Mr Thornton you were in touch again… I’m afraid you’ve just missed him… would you like to leave a message… yes, of course I’ll pass your name on to him.

  In the window of ReedAlong, a small bookshop on Main Street, she had bought a copy of Remembering Reedstown and searched in vain for any mention of the Thorns. Brendan Barry, the author, was affable and chatty when she contacted him one evening. They arranged to meet in the Loyvale Hotel the following day.

  He was a small, fidgety man with a habit of tapping his left foot off the floor. Adultery had been his Achilles heel, he admitted, which could explain the foot-tapping. Adele stopped noticing it after a while.

  ‘Liam Thornton threatened to destroy my marriage if I mentioned his mother’s name in my book.’ Brendan was ruefully honest with her. ‘He obtained photographs of… let’s just say they were of an intimate nature and could have destroyed my marriage. Seeing yourself in flagrante does nothing for one’s self-esteem and certainly helps to keep the tomcat in me at home.’

  ‘Are they still in his possession?’ Adele asked.

  ‘They are. Which makes Remembering Reedstown the most boring book I will ever write.’

  ‘Did you know Gloria Thornton?’

  ‘I was ten when she died,’ he said. ‘So, I only knew her by reputation. Weirdly scary was how I imagined her. The jury was out as to whether she was a saint or a swindler. The research I did before I started writing the book led me to believe the latter. I heard rumours about illegal adoptions she ran from that mother and baby home in Inisada. It was way off the beaten track—’

  ‘I’ve been there.’

  ‘Then you know what I’m talking abo
ut. As far as I could gather, the rumours were never investigated. But touch Gloria Thornton and you stir a hornets’ nest, especially when it comes to her son. Tread carefully, if you decide to go ahead with your documentary.’

  She remembered his warning the next time she rang to speak to Liam. The fact that she was on first-name terms with the formidable Bella had done nothing to change the message.

  Two days later, she waited for him to emerge from his office on Fitzwilliam Square. LXT Properties was engraved on a copper plate outside a handsome Georgian building with a panelled front door, capped with fan-shaped panes of stained glass.

  By late afternoon, her patience was rewarded when the door opened and Liam Thornton stood at the top of the steps with a second man. They spoke together for a moment before the second man shook his hand and walked away.

  ‘Mr Thornton, can I have a word with you, please?’ Adele dashed up the steps and reached the door just as he was closing it.

  If he was surprised by her sudden appearance, he didn’t show it, but the snap in his voice told her he had recognised her.

  ‘You’re a persistent young woman, Miss Foyle,’ he said. ‘One could almost accuse you of being a stalker.’

  ‘If you’ll let me explain―’

  ‘I’ve no intention of allowing you to explain anything,’ he said. ‘If you’re not down those steps within the next ten seconds, I’ll call security and have you evicted.’