by Laura Elliot
‘Your refusal to speak to me won’t stop my documentary.’ Determined to make him listen, she rushed the words at him. ‘I have testimony from a woman who spent time in your mother’s House of Atonement. She claimed she was trafficked there and held against her will. I need your cooperation if her testimony is to be disputed.’
‘Testimony?’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘Now, that’s an interesting word. Who dared to make such a slanderous claim?’
‘I’m not prepared to divulge sources. But I’m willing to discuss her testimony with you.’ She held his gaze. One blink from her and she would lose. He still maintained his deadpan expression but she knew she had unsettled him. Otherwise, she would have been marched down the steps by now.
‘This had better be worth my attention, Miss Foyle.’ The break in tension was almost palpable as he closed the door behind them, then strode ahead of her towards the elevator.
An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling of his office and a black and white photograph of an apartment complex took up almost the entire width of the wall behind his desk. It had been photographed at night, the windows radiating bursts of light and adding a surreal appearance to the tall, stately towers. One of his own developments, she presumed. He waved her into a leather armchair. She sank gently into its cushioned softness, aware that arising with dignity from it would be impossible. His own chair, higher and firmer, sent out an unmistakable signal. Liam Thornton was used to imposing his authority on any given situation.
‘Ten minutes, Miss Foyle,’ he said. ‘That’s how long you have to convince me you’re not wasting my time.’
His suit sat well on him, bespoke tailored, and he had chosen a muted striped tie to wear with his crisp white shirt. Nothing casual about his attire, which he wore like armour, too flawless to distract attention yet creating the impression of a businessman who left nothing to chance.
‘I have two opposing narratives for my documentary,’ she said. ‘I must investigate which one is true. Was Gloria Thornton a holy woman, who ran a sanctuary for pregnant women and provided them with all the support they needed? Or did she force them to work without wages and then, when their babies were born, did she arrange for those children to be illegally adopted? You can tell me which narrative is true.’
‘How dare you…’ He paused for an instant, seemingly too astonished by her audacity to continue. ‘If that is the angle you are going to spin, you’ll find yourself in court faster than the time it takes you to turn around and walk from my office.’
‘On what grounds will you silence me?’
‘Defamation is a serious crime—’
‘The reputations of the dead cannot be defamed, Mr Thornton.’
‘But their loved ones who are left behind can challenge an obvious untruth. If you persist in peddling the lie that the House of Atonement was anything other than a legitimate organisation run for the benefit of young women at a difficult time of their lives, I assure you I can provide precise documented evidence to the contrary. What can you bring, apart from some so-called testimony you claim to have discovered?’
‘It’s genuine―’
‘Genuine?’ His smile was self-assured, confident that whatever documentation he had would stand up to any legal scrutiny. ‘I very much doubt that, Ms Foyle. My mother was an inspirational woman. Whether or not she was touched by the divine is a moot point but this I do know. She believed utterly that it was her mission to establish a sodality of like-minded people who were determined to find another way to serve their Lord. If she had a failing, it was to place too much trust in others.’
‘Others?’
‘People like Rosemary Mooney.’ He nodded decisively. ‘Davina Lewis told me you were enquiring about her. Am I to assume you’re investigating her activities for your documentary?’
Hearing the name again, its unfamiliar resonances, and unable to attach it to her grandmother’s face, Adele struggled to compose herself.
‘She was the spokesperson for your mother’s sodality so, yes, I’m interested in her. But I’ve no idea what you mean by “her activities”.’
‘I advise you to go back and research Rosemary Mooney. Then you’ll have a documentary worth making.’
‘In what respect?’ She hoped her tone did not betray her uneasiness. ‘I’ve found no references to her, apart from letters she wrote to the papers. What crime are you claiming she committed?’
‘After my mother’s death, it was discovered that Rosemary Mooney had been embezzling funds from the sodality. Fortunately, Gloria died before the truth was uncovered, so at least she was spared the ordeal of discovering that someone she trusted implicitly had betrayed her.’
‘If that was true, Rosemary Mooney was a criminal.’ How ridiculous that word sounded. ‘Why was she never brought to justice?’
‘Simple answer, she disappeared. You like a challenge, Ms Foyle. Go find her and leave my mother to rest in peace.’ He was watching her carefully, gauging her reaction, waiting for her response. Not by a quiver or a teardrop would Liam Thornton see the impact his words were having on her.
‘The only other information I have on Rosemary Mooney is that she brought her daughter to the House of Atonement and that’s where the girl died.’
‘Ah, yes, the daughter. A troubled kid.’ He looked upwards at the glittering chandelier, his intent expression suggesting he was counting each crystal droplet.
‘You knew her?’
‘By reputation only.’ He drew his nostrils together, as if the air in the office offended him. ‘Reedstown was a hotbed of gossip in those days and Marianne Mooney was often the butt of it.’
‘How so?’
‘Nowadays, teenagers call it slut shaming. In our day, she was simply called “the village bike”. A handy ride. I’m sure you know what I mean. Sorry if my language offends you. It was the girls, not the lads, who put her name about.’
‘Why did they do that?’
‘I’ve already explained the reasons,’ he replied. ‘But my mother did not indulge in local gossip. Instead, she took Marianne Mooney under her wing and protected her from the opprobrium of her peers. That girl’s death was a tragedy that could have been averted if she had made different decisions. This meeting is over, Ms Foyle. If you uncover one single shred of evidence that proves Gloria Thornton was not driven by her faith and a desire to help those young women in her care, we’ll speak again.’
Adele blinked as the sharp lines on the photograph behind his desk blurred. Too angry to care about the tears welling in her eyes, she pulled a handful of medals from her pocket and flung them on his desk. ‘Slave labour, Mr Thornton. That’s the legacy your mother left behind her.’
‘Miss Foyle, I’m not impressed by your dramatics. Don’t ever make contact again unless you want an injunction taken out against you for harassing me.’
She noticed faint pock marks on his cheeks, more than likely an old acne problem that only became inflamed when he was angry. He reminded her of a painting where too much gloss had been used to smooth over the rough surface.
Outside, standing at the top of the steps, she swayed, overcome by his casual brutality. Vulnerability: he was attuned to it. Slowly, deliberately, he had fractured her mind, filling it with fissures where, only moments before, there had been certainty. Embezzlement. It was too ludicrous to even consider and yet… and yet… Rosemary Mooney, alias Noreen Foyle, had fled to the seclusion of Crannock to live out her days under the rocky gradients of the Ox Mountains. Querulous yet gentle when Adele needed her loving arms. Silent and obstinate when Adele demanded answers that would explain the loneliness of her childhood. Always dressing in dull shades of brown and beige; shades that had allowed her to move inconspicuously through her chosen landscape.
Moving too fast, she collided with a woman who had just reached the top of the steps. She grabbed the railing to keep her balance but Adele, unable to do so, felt the power leaving her legs. She collapsed to her knees and would have tumbled down the steps if the w
oman had not reached her in time. She helped Adele to her feet and stared with concern at the tears streaming down her face.
‘Are you okay, my dear? You came out of there so fast I didn’t have time to move aside.’
‘I’m fine.’ She had grazed her hands in the effort to stop her fall and must have done the same with her knees if the throbbing pain was any indication.
‘You’re far from fine.’ The woman delved into her handbag and produced a tissue. ‘Take this and dry your eyes. You’re totally shaken. Can I get you a drink of water?’ She gestured towards the door, which had closed with an automatic snap behind Adele.
‘No, I’m good. Honestly.’
‘You’re the documentary maker. I thought you looked familiar. Oh dear, were you trying to interview my husband?’
‘Your husband?’ Adele stared in confusion at her.
‘Liam Thornton.’
Adele nodded and dabbed at her eyes. Tears would not advance her search any further. ‘I wanted to speak to him about my documentary but our meeting turned out badly.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that but not surprised. I’m Julie Thornton. We met in the Loyvale last week. I was coming from a meeting with Davina Lewis.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Adele had a vague recollection of another woman being there, but she had been so focused on Davina she had hardly noticed her.
‘A strong brandy will put you to rights and there’s a bar not a stone’s throw from here. Come with me.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t want to delay you.’
‘You’re not delaying me. I was planning to surprise my husband and lure him out to lunch, but what he doesn’t know he won’t miss.’
She escorted Adele into a bar, where the cool, darkened interior offered a welcome relief from the sun. ‘I’ve a clinic this afternoon,’ she explained as she ordered a brandy for Adele and coffee for herself. ‘Otherwise, I’d be happy to join you.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘A counsellor. My clinic is nearby.’ She was small in stature and skinny rather than slim; her face betrayed her age but, seen from behind, she could have been mistaken for a young girl. Even her hair, a sleek, chestnut sheen, the fringe hanging low over her eyes, had the simplicity of a child’s haircut. ‘Davina told me you’re making a documentary about my mother-in-law?’
‘She’s only part of the overall story I want to investigate.’
‘How far advanced is your documentary?’
‘Not far. I’ve been to Inisada to see the House of Atonement.’
‘What a dreadful name.’ Julie’s bottom lip turned down. ‘Sounds like something from the Dark Ages.’
‘Did you know Gloria?’
‘Not really. She was always coming and going in those days so I’m not sure if anyone in Reedstown actually knew her. And that includes her son, by the way. Yet, he’s quite devoted to her memory, as you’ve undoubtedly gathered.’
‘Why is he so reluctant to talk to me about her?’
‘Not just you, my dear. You’re not the first person to approach him with questions about Gloria and that strange sodality she ran. Gloria was beloved by her followers and he suffered because of her fame… reputation… notoriety… whatever you like to call it. She’s dead a long time but there are still those who would like to trash her sodality. Can you imagine how you would feel if people were intent on destroying your own mother’s reputation?’
The village bike… the slut who put out, trailing gossip behind her. A free-for-all… on her knees… legs splayed… no… no… she could not bear it. Somehow, Liam Thornton had found a fault line through which he could enter and work on her from the inside. Was that how Gloria Thornton had operated on those who were vulnerable enough to follow her? He had defiled her mother’s memory and Adele had allowed him to do so without plunging a knife into his heart.
His wife was waiting for her reply.
‘I guess… I’m sure I’d find it difficult,’ she said.
‘As I would, also. I adore my mother so I take her love for granted. But all Liam has are memories and he is fiercely protective of them. He won’t allow them to be tainted by exaggeration or lies.’ Her hair swung over her cheeks as she glanced down at Adele’s empty glass. ‘Can I order you another?’
‘No… no. But thank you for your kindness. Did you know Marianne Mooney?’
‘Slightly. Why?’
‘She stayed in that mother and baby home.’
‘Really?’ Julie sounded surprised. ‘I know nothing about that.’ She finished her coffee and checked her watch, the skin puckering between her eyebrows. ‘I have to go now. I’ve no wish to interfere in your documentary, Adele. But do tread carefully. You’re young and ambitious. I’m not saying that as a criticism. I like your spirit – but Gloria was a woman of great complexity and the story of the Thorns is not an easy one to tell. Too many layers to peel away.’
After she’d left, Adele made her way to the ladies and bathed her hands. Her knees were badly grazed but not cut. She should quit now. She suspected that Daniel was becoming weary of her indecisiveness, her inability to give him a firm date for her departure. She touched her jacket pocket where the diary rested. The feel of it gave her courage. Her separation from him would come to an end soon but the separation from her mother that she had experienced at birth was a wound she never realised needed healing until those pages with their pathetic entries had directed her to Reedstown. She was on a quest and she must not allow herself to falter.
21 Rachel
Sergeant Rachel Darcy was seldom taken by surprise. Twenty years in the force had hardened her spine, heart and mind. Listening to accusations and denials, she could usually gauge within the first few minutes of an interview whether or not she was hearing the truth. Not that the truth was ever straightforward. As far as Rachel was concerned, it was a complex canvas, woven with many threads; but, always, there was a single strand that she could grasp and decide if the person being interviewed had a case for the Gardai to pursue. On this occasion, though, she was unable to make such a judgement.
A diary found in an attic. A long-kept secret supposedly revealed. The diary suggested that at least some aspect of this story was true. Tense as a spring about to uncoil, Adele Foyle linked her fingers together, as if she was praying rather than making the most disturbing claims. Allegations, not accusations, Rachel reminded herself any time she became too caught up in the drama of the story. A gang-rape, here in Reedstown, never investigated. A resultant pregnancy that killed the young mother shortly after her daughter was born. And here she was, the daughter, leaning determinedly towards Rachel, brown eyes glistening with unshed tears, demanding that a cold case investigation be opened to establish the truth.
‘The Magdalene laundries had closed down by then but Gloria Thornton followed the same principle of enforced labour.’ Her voice rose, as if she expected Rachel to refute this claim. ‘That’s exactly what it was. My mother was forced to work there for nothing until I was born.’
Rachel had no intention of arguing with her. She was familiar with the history of such places. The litany of lies and cover-ups, the harshness of a regime that promised succour but dehumanised the women who had sought shelter there.
‘Will you open an investigation?’ Adele asked.
In the three weeks since she came to Reedstown, she had been compiling information. She had uncovered documentation that proved the grandmother she knew as Noreen Foyle had changed her name by deed poll. A copy of the document lay on Rachel’s desk. The change was made shortly before Adele was born.
She had been to visit the mother and baby home. Her photographs showed the derelict, burned-out ruin of what would once have been a fine, stately home. There was a rusting sign on the gate, with the words ‘House of Atonement’ still visible. Photocopies of newspaper clippings were added to the growing pile of documentation. Letters of complaint to the Reedstown Review, all signed with the name Rosemary Mooney. Images of her protesting with other like-minded Thorns.
The moniker was a lot easier than a mouthful like the Sodality of Thorns and Atonement, Rachel thought, as she moved the clippings to one side. She concentrated on this distressed young woman who was offering to provide her DNA to help establish her father’s identity.
‘There has to be some information about my mother’s assault on record,’ she insisted. ‘With the advances in forensics, you’ll be able to establish what really happened.’
‘You’ve made a very damaging allegation.’ Rachel needed to slow the pace of this interview. ‘All I can promise for now is that we’ll check our records. If your mother was here on that night, as she claimed, then her statement will be on file. How long are you staying in Reedstown?’
‘As long as it takes to find out the truth.’
‘Be under no illusions, the truth, whatever it is, will take time to establish,’ Rachel warned her. ‘Let’s take one step at a time. I have your details, so I’ll be in touch as soon as I finish checking through our records.’
She watched from her office window as Adele left the Garda station and hesitated, as if unsure which way to turn. Crossing the road, she disappeared under the arch leading to the river where she had rented a house.
Her name had been familiar to Rachel even before she came to the Garda station and asked to speak to her. Bob had mentioned her visit to the archives. Always looking out for the deeper layer of a story, he had been intrigued by her decision to document a cult that had been extinct for decades. Could her interest in Gloria Thornton have more to do with unearthing the offshore account he believed she’d established during her glory days? An account that had floated her son’s property development company. Rachel was familiar with this rumour, for that was all it remained, despite Bob’s strenuous efforts to prove it true. But he was wrong about Adele Foyle. She had no interest in exposing corruption. She was after a bigger truth; one that would reveal her father’s identity and bring him, along with his two accomplices, to justice. Every word in her mother’s diary, even the incoherent entries that suggested the young teenager was on the verge of despair or else a nervous breakdown, was gospel to her. It was Rachel’s objective skills that would establish what was real and what was perceived.