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

by Laura Elliot

  ‘Why would she do something like that? It doesn’t make sense.’ Adele pushed the statement away from her. ‘She must have signed it under duress.’

  ‘Adele, please think about what you’re suggesting. Do you honestly believe that such a crime would not have been thoroughly investigated? Jack Bale served out his tenure as a sergeant in Reedstown with an impeccable reputation. You can’t bandy accusations about on such flimsy evidence. I’m sorry I can’t give you the answers you want. I did a thorough investigation and came up with nothing to substantiate your claim.’

  ‘What about Gloria Thornton? She ran―’

  ‘Gloria Thornton is dead and cannot defend herself.’

  ‘As is my mother. Yet no one ever investigated her death.’

  ‘I understand your distress but I’ve taken this as far as I can.’

  The sergeant’s voice seemed far away, bursts of static as she explained how Adele’s grandmother had been prepared to press charges against Shane and how, directly as a result of Jack Bale’s intervention, he was able to leave for Australia with his mother. Marianne went to Inisada and died there so that Adele could live. End of story. No case to answer. She had believed there was an empathy between herself and the sergeant; an openness that had allowed her to place her precious diary into the hands of another. Facts were facts… until they weren’t.

  23 Adele

  Anglers regularly came to the Loy, bringing folding chairs and picnic baskets. Adele envied their relaxed postures, their patience. There was always tomorrow if the big one got away. Two days after her meeting with Garda Darcy, she was working on her laptop when she noticed one of the anglers standing outside. Expecting him to pass on, she was surprised when he opened the gate. She recognised him as he drew nearer, having seen his photograph in back issues of the Reedstown Review.

  Marianne had never described Jack Bale’s physical appearance in her diary and Adele always visualised him as a looming, menacing presence. In the flesh he was smaller than in her imaginings, yet still tall, about six feet in height, his heavy shoulders balancing his strong, red neck. A battered hat shaded his face and the lumpen shape of dead fish protruded from the plastic bag he carried. The ring on the doorbell was an imperious summons, which she answered after taking a deep, steadying breath.

  He reached two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute. She was relieved when he made no effort to shake her hand. She would prefer to crush glass than make physical contact with him.

  ‘Good evening, young lady,’ he said. ‘I’m Jack Bale.’

  ‘I know who you are, Mr Bale.’

  ‘Well, that gets rid of the formalities,’ he said. ‘But call me Jack. May I call you Adele?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I heard on the grapevine that you’re new to the area so I thought I’d drop in on my way home and welcome you to Reedstown. I’ve had a good day on the river and these beauties will go to waste if I don’t give them away.’

  He opened the bag to show her the contents. She recoiled from the sight of the speckled flesh, so slick yet lifeless, and still exuding the fresh whiff of their existence. ‘Look upon these beauties as a welcome-to-Reedstown gesture,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring them into the kitchen and gut them for you. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss while I’m doing it.’

  She fought back the impulse to close the door on him. Nothing could be gained by such a gesture and she knew with a chilling certainty that he had come to her for a reason. ‘Please come in.’ She stood aside to allow him to enter.

  He walked without hesitation ahead of her to the kitchen, where he slid the trout onto a chopping board.

  ‘How are you enjoying our village, Adele? It must seem very slow after London.’

  ‘Everywhere is slow after London,’ she replied. ‘Reedstown makes a restful change.’

  ‘I was surprised to hear that Larry managed to rent out this place. Thought it was a lost cause after the flooding. Are you settling in okay?’

  ‘So far so good.’

  ‘Not a bit isolated for a young one like yourself?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, that makes a change from the young ones I know. They’d get withdrawal symptoms if the city lights were switched off. Now, where’s a knife I can use to gut these beauties? Ah, this one should do the trick.’ He removed a knife from a wooden block and inspected its blade.

  ‘I believe you’re a documentary maker,’ he went on. ‘That must be a fascinating occupation?’

  ‘I enjoy my work.’

  ‘A kindred spirit, I see. I also loved my work. Loved it so much that I dreaded retiring. I thought I’d be bored but, now, I’m busier than ever.’ He slid the point of the knife into the belly of the first fish and began to clean it out. ‘I took the liberty of watching some of your work, Adele. You have a keen mind and a curious eye. However, you shave close to the edge of truth in the pursuit of sensationalism, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ His forehead was furrowed with concentration as he delicately worked on the second trout. ‘I don’t doubt your integrity but I have huge respect for the good work Gloria Thornton did and the comfort she gave to others.’

  He filleted the backbone from the fish and swept the innards into the plastic bag. He washed his hands. Large, capable hands, speckled with sun spots.

  ‘These will stink the kitchen out.’ He lifted the bag of innards and swung it towards her. ‘I’ll dump them into the bin and then have that mug of tea.’

  Outside in the garden, he slammed the lid of the wheelie bin closed. ‘Come out here and have a look at this,’ he shouted. ‘You’d need to talk to Larry and get him to sort it out.’

  When Adele joined him in the garden, he was pointing at a crack on the side wall. ‘It’s dangerous,’ he said. ‘Bad foundations. Tell him I know a builder who’ll fix it. He’ll not charge him an arm or a leg either. It probably happened when the place flooded last winter.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Be sure and do that.’ He continued inspecting the wall, pointing at a block that had loosened and complaining about the land on which the house had been built. ‘What idiot on the council gave permission for housing to be built on a flood plain?’ he said. ‘Larry Kavanagh was asking for trouble when he bought this place. Thought he’d make a quick buck on the rent but he didn’t reckon on the Loy. It’ll flood again, mark my words.’

  Bored by his conversation, Adele turned to walk back to the house.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ! Would you look at this?’ He had turned his attention to the shed at the bottom of the garden.

  Reluctantly, she inspected a truncated pipe that jutted from the shed wall. It appeared to have been abandoned in the middle of its installation. Jack Bale clacked his teeth and heaved his shoulders at the tawdry workmanship he saw everywhere he looked. A bleep on his mobile distracted him. After checking the message, he followed Adele back to the house. He lifted a lemon from the fruit bowl and squeezed it over the fish, added salt, rubbing the granules between his fingers. His sense of his own authority was absolute. Adele imagined him taking her mother’s statement, signing his name at the bottom of it, the flourish of his signature.

  He clasped his hands around the mug of tea she handed him and said, ‘This documentary you’re making, where exactly are you going with it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bale.’ She was startled by his bluntness. ‘But I’m not prepared to discuss my work with you.’

  ‘Jack… Jack, no formalities, please. I’m worried about it and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. It’s come to my notice that you intend presenting Gloria Thornton as the leader of a cult. You, as a wordsmith, and, may I add, a very fine one, should appreciate the importance of words. The right words.’

  The quickening of her heartbeat was an uncomfortable reminder that Marianne had been terrified of this man.

  ‘I can assure you─’

  ‘Who gave you authority to make this documentary?’ His interruption was deliberate, challeng
ing. He had a disconcerting gaze, honed from years of interrogations. Getting to the nub of the matter.

  ‘I don’t see what business that is of yours,’ she replied.

  ‘I intend to make it my business. Liam Thornton has threatened you with an injunction if you continue to stalk him. You blagged your way into his office with the express intention of defaming a woman who is no longer around to defend herself. You were skulking around Davina Lewis’s property and using Bob Molloy’s archives under false pretences. You’ve been accosting elderly members of the community and upsetting them with your suggestions that a cult once existed here. And now you’re daring to question my tenure in Reedstown. Don’t look so startled. I’ve deep roots in the village and nothing escapes my attention. I ran a tight ship when I was a sergeant and will prove that to you if you dare to impugn my reputation.’

  What had Sergeant Darcy told him? Had she named Adele as the person enquiring about Marianne Mooney or had he just put two and two together and made four? It would not be difficult to figure out that a documentary about Gloria Thornton would include questions about a young expectant mother who had stayed in the House of Atonement.

  ‘I rang Voice Dox and spoke to your boss… or should I say, your ex-boss.’ His baleful stare added to the appropriateness of his name, she through. ‘I’m sure you can imagine her surprise when she heard from me. She was under the impression you’d moved to Colorado and were no longer an employee of her company. She was shocked to discover that you’re making a documentary without her imprimatur and using the name of her company under false pretences.’

  ‘That’s a total distortion of what happened. My documentary―’

  ‘On the contrary, your documentary is nothing but a con job.’

  The clock on the wall struck six and a cuckoo shot in and out of it. Adele had disliked the clock when she first moved into Brooklime but she had come to terms with its shrill occupant and the notes that marked the hours of her days. Her gaze flickered to the shelf where the diary lay next to her phone. Hoping he had not noticed that involuntary glance, she walked to the wall where a picture hung askew and straightened it. Noticing a key that had fallen from the key rack, she replaced it on its hook. This gave her time to compose her features before she rounded on him.

  ‘I’m an independent documentary maker investigating the practices of a sodality that existed here twenty-five years ago. I have only recently left Voice Dox and have not used their name since then. Regarding my tactics, Davina Lewis invited me into Hillcrest. Bob Molloy gave me permission to examine the archives and anyone who spoke to me did so of their own free will. Liam Thornton refused to speak to me and it’s his prerogative to seek an injunction, not yours. I intend continuing with my documentary and will not be intimidated by you or anyone else.’

  His large frame dominated the kitchen when he stood and leaned his hands on the table. ‘Get that crack on the wall sorted out, Miss Foyle. Accidents can happen so easily when we don’t take care of the structures. Good evening to you.’

  She watched from the window as he closed the gate behind him. The riverbank was busy, parents walking with children, sleek cyclists shrouded in helmets, joggers with pedometers tracking their steps. The smell of fish clung like a vapour in her nostrils. The air was thick with it but there was something else also, a spicy odour that was barely detectable, and could have been imagined, yet it added to the menacing sense of having had her space invaded. She wrapped the gutted trout in paper, her hands shaking as she flung the parcel into the bin. The Loy flowed smoothly onward.

  24 Adele

  It was still dark outside when Adele awoke. She had been dreaming, an uneasy dreaming, a disturbing nightmare, the images already fading. Instead of the slow relief she would usually feel, she was alert and tense. No birdsong broke the silence yet she sensed that dawn was near. Unable to relax back to sleep, she reached for her phone to check the time. It wasn’t in its usual place on the bedside table, nor had it fallen on the floor during the night. She shook the duvet, checked under the pillows. Could she have left it in the kitchen or the living room? Definitely not. She had been in bed when she spoke to Daniel, a terse conversation that filled her with unease as it came back to her.

  You’re stirring a hornets’ nest… opening a can of worms… on a wild goose chase… since when had they resorted to clichés? Nowadays, it seemed as if all their conversations boiled down to such trite comments, his impatience becoming clearer with each call. He was finding the transition to Colorado difficult, more demanding than he had expected. She should have listened to him, allowed him time to express his annoyance with executives who rubbished his reports on how to create a greener environment for drilling oil. He wanted her with him, not digging about in muck. And that was what it felt like. Viscid mud that kept sliding through her fingers. How much longer, he asked. How long is a piece of string? Last night, consumed with her own thoughts, she had cut their conversation short, unable to tolerate his questions.

  Their angry exchange troubled her as she continued to search for her phone. Kneeling down, she checked under the bed. She even lifted the edge of the mattress in a vain attempt to find it. Had she walked in her sleep? She had done so in the past when she was stressed. Exams, job interviews, a difficult relationship she had endured for a year before ending it. She left the bedroom and went downstairs. Everything looked exactly the same as it had when she went to bed; until she noticed a delicate sprig of brooklime on the living room floor. The blue flower that had given the house its name had been crushed underfoot and feet other than her own had stepped across the wooden floorboards.

  Last week she had picked the flower from the riverbank, dried it and placed it between two pages of Marianne’s diary. Had someone turned the pages, unaware that the flower had slipped out? Only those crushed petals now remained as evidence that the diary had been removed from its usual spot and was also missing. Unable to believe the evidence of her eyes, her movements became frantic as she pulled out cushions and dragged the contents from drawers, checking places she knew she would never have left it.

  The screen remained blank when she switched on her laptop. Attaching the charger made no difference. The container where she kept her USB sticks was empty. Her file of photocopied newspaper clippings from the archives and printed reports downloaded from the internet had also been removed. Everything she had collected since the day that swallow flew between the rafters of her grandmother’s attic was gone. While she slept, someone had systematically erased her online presence. Whoever was responsible for this vandalism had not only destroyed her research but, also, had stolen the only meaningful link she had to her mother’s existence. Was that someone Jack Bale? She had not seen him on the river since their meeting in Brooklime two days previously. She shook her head. He would not have taken such a risk. But she suspected he was only a hand away from the deed.

  Larry answered his front door after her third knock. ‘You and I are the only two people with keys.’ He was sleepy and irritable, his eyes bloodshot. ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘A diary and my phone.’

  ‘A phone I can understand but why in God’s name would anyone be bothered stealing a diary? What’s in it? The third secret of Fatima?’ He tightened the belt on his dressing gown and emitted a short bark of laughter.

  She stepped back from the sound. ‘They wiped my laptop. Everything’s gone.’

  ‘I’m not a techie but I’ll guarantee that’s a local breakdown. Your broadband will be up and running once the powers that be sort out the problem. Do you know what time it is? Five o’clock in the morning and you’re after putting my heart crossways over nothing.’

  ‘I’m sorry for waking you but someone did break into Brooklime. They must have had a key. There’s no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘Are you saying I did it?’ His tone sharpened.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then believe me when I tell you we’re the only two with keys. Go back to bed. Finish your s
leep and you’ll find everything you’re looking for in the morning.’

  She returned to Brooklime by the river path. The sky was brightening as the sun edged over the bridge that spanned the Loy. The light on the river deepened to coral as it reflected the streeling clouds. It was going to be another hot day. Adele continued running until she reached the shelter of Brooklime’s walls.

  She thought about Jack Bale, his affability and aggression working off each other, and how he had kept her outside inspecting flaws that were of no importance. Had someone entered the house while they were outside and made a copy of the key? It sounded ludicrous and yet it made perfect sense. Whoever it was would have had to be armed with the right equipment, probably a clam kit. She had seen how the device worked when she was doing research for a Voice Doc documentary on security. It would have taken only a moment to open the hinged device and press the key into the putty-like substance inside it. She remembered the smell rising above the odour of fish. She had forgotten about it but, thinking back, she realised it had reminded her of a spicily scented aftershave.

  Sergeant Darcy listened politely to Adele. She admitted that in all her years of processing complaints, she had never dealt with a victim who claimed her online identity had been stolen. A virus, obviously, rare, destructive and untraceable, she said when Adele told her that her laptop was blank, everything wiped. She was patient and polite as she explained that the Gardai did not have the resources to trace this damaging virus, especially when it had left nothing behind except a ruined hard drive.

  ‘It was not a virus,’ Adele flatly contradicted her. ‘This was done deliberately to sabotage my documentary.’ She described her meeting with Liam Thornton and Jack Bale’s visit to Brooklime. Under the sergeant’s questioning, she heard her arguments fall apart. No, she had heard nothing during the night. No, she had no evidence to prove Jack Bale had warned her off making her documentary. Yes, he had brought fresh fish from the river to her and, yes, she had invited him in for a cup of tea.