by Laura Elliot
‘And now my mother’s diary’s gone,’ she said. ‘How do you explain that?’
‘Could you have left it behind in the Kasket?’ Sergeant Darcy sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘You do a lot of work there on your laptop.’
‘How can you even think that?’ Adele’s distress left the sergeant in no doubt about her reaction to that suggestion. ‘You know that my mother’s diary is my most precious possession.’
Perhaps it was this distress that persuaded Sergeant Darcy to take the matter a step further. A young guard arrived at Brooklime to check for fingerprints. Apart from Adele’s own prints, there were no marks on the wood or glass to suggest a break-in had occurred. The lost USB sticks were probably hidden in drawers, Garda Roberts said. She was the same age as Adele, tech savvy; yet despite all her knowledge, she had once suffered a catastrophic virus attack that had taken her a week to sort out. She was always losing memory sticks and leaving her mobile in pubs and clubs. Adele’s phone was probably lying silent, battery dead, in some unsearched crevice in Brooklime. It would turn up when she calmed down and did a thorough search. Her cheerful conversation was as useless as it was irritating.
Adele located a flyer advertising a computer repair shop that had been dropped through the letter box soon after she moved into Brooklime. BootUrBytes was on Barrow Lane behind the Garda station. It was a dingy building, squashed between a charity outlet and a washeteria.
‘Not a chance,’ Jonathan Wheeler, the owner, said after giving her laptop a cursory examination. ‘Best to dump it and get a new one.’
She asked him how everything on her hard drive could be so corrupted that nothing had survived, even in the Cloud.
‘Shit happens.’ His indifference verged on rudeness.
Adele sensed something else in the atmosphere of his small, cluttered shop. Amusement, she thought, then dismissed this possibility as ridiculous. Why should the two youths working behind the counter, who called the owner ‘Grad’, find anything funny in her predicament? Why should the laughter that came from beyond the partition dividing the shop from the repair workspace be aimed at her? Adele left the premises, vowing never to return.
She bought a new phone and laptop elsewhere but the wealth of information she had lost was irreplaceable. As for the diary, her only consolation was the copy she had made soon after she moved into Brooklime. What impulse had driven her to photograph each page and store them on a USB key? She wanted to believe that her mother had prompted her to do so. It was comforting to think that somewhere in that other-world, a young girl with tormented eyes was watching over her. Adele had hidden the USB key in the garden shed with the truncated pipe. Unaware of its existence, Jack Bale had stood so close to its hiding place in the cluttered shed but she was too upset to appreciate the irony.
25 Adele
Bob Molloy’s ability to listen was what Adele liked most about him. Unlike Sergeant Darcy, who had been unable to hide her scepticism, he listened intently when she told him her research had been stolen.
‘Jack Bale knows my documentary is about more than Gloria Thornton and that bothers him,’ she said. ‘That’s why my laptop was wiped. I can’t prove he did it but I’m convinced he’s responsible.’
‘As a newspaperman I know that nothing is ever as straightforward as it sounds,’ he said. ‘I figured you were interested in more than the Thorns and their practices. Obviously, my instincts were right. I’ve been after the same information ever since I came back from New York but I found it impossible to trace her offshore account.’
‘What offshore account?’ Adele asked.
‘That’s not what you’re trying to track?’
‘No. Liam Thornton said funds were embezzled by Rosemary Mooney―’
‘He met you.’ Unable to hide his surprise, he sat back in his chair and surveyed her. ‘You must have used some strong-arm tactics.’
‘Let’s just say we had an encounter.’
‘I’ve heard that story about Rosemary.’ He flattened his hands against the desk and exhaled sharply. ‘She was Gloria’s mouthpiece, nothing else.’
‘You knew her?’
‘To be honest, I hardly knew myself in those days. But from what I remember about her, she was a foot soldier, not a leader. Certainly not capable of embezzling the multitudes and lodging the money offshore.’
‘Did you know her daughter?’
He hesitated, his brow furrowing before he replied. ‘Yes. Her name was Marianne. She left Reedstown with her mother when she was quite young. What has she got to do with your documentary?’
‘She’s key to it, actually. You’re right about the Thorns. They’re a sidebar to the real story I want to tell.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’ve reason to believe a crime was committed against Marianne Mooney and covered up by the Gardai. Jack Bale’s behaviour has confirmed my suspicions. He’s trying to shut me down.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She wanted to touch her pocket and feel the diary. Without it, she felt adrift. It had given her courage to keep searching, asking questions, refusing to accept that there was no case to answer.
‘Marianne Mooney was raped. The men who did it, there were three of them, were local.’
‘By local you mean Reedstown?’ His hands remained motionless on his desk, apart from an involuntary reflex from his index fingers. ‘Where did this happen?’
‘Blake’s Hollow.’
‘What evidence have you to back this claim?’
‘Enough to know it’s true.’
‘That’s not an answer, Adele.’
‘I know that Jack Bale is trying to silence me.’
‘That’s a mighty presumption to make.’
‘I’ve made it. I believe that’s why he was so aggressive towards me. Firstly, he denied it to Sergeant Darcy―’
‘You spoke to Sergeant Darcy about this?’ His tone was as incredulous as his expression.
Adele nodded. ‘She checked the records and said there was no case to answer but I don’t believe―’
‘Let me stop you right there.’ He held up his hand, palm facing her. ‘I have to declare a personal interest here. Sergeant Darcy is my wife.’
‘Your wife?’ Heat rushed to her cheeks as she absorbed this information. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘There’s no reason why you should.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘But you need to understand something important. Rachel is absolutely trustworthy and scrupulous. If she says there is no case to answer, then you must accept that she’s telling you the truth.’
‘She believes she’s telling me the truth. I wouldn’t push this story if I wasn’t convinced that Marianne Mooney was gang-raped and then sent off to that mother and baby home run by Gloria Thornton to hide what happened to her. One of those men was the father of her child.’
‘Why did you lie to me about your research?’ He pushed back from his desk and walked to the window.
‘The Thorns are part of her story. Marianne Mooney died when she was in their care.’
‘These supposed assailants…?’ He hesitated, his back to her. ‘Do you have names for them?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Was that what you were checking in my archives?’
‘The crime was never covered by the Reedstown Review,’ she admitted. ‘No mention of a trial or a report that an anonymous teenager had been subjected to such a heinous attack. Don’t you find that strange?’
‘I find it strange that you would lie to me.’ His attention remained fixed on Main Street. ‘And strange that you would suggest my father would bury such a story.’
‘If Jack Bale covered it up, your father wouldn’t have known anything about it.’
‘Are you seriously expecting me to believe the Gardai hid evidence of a serious rape that took place in their jurisdiction?’ He turned to face her. ‘Come on, Adele, you’re a journalist. No names. No Garda records. No mention of it in the archives. How
can you honestly base a documentary on such flimsy evidence?’
He didn’t believe her. Flimsy evidence, just as his wife had said. A flimsy book of evidence, filled with handwriting that had started to fade. Gone now, that small but powerful bond between them. Pulped or burned, and in its place a soulless memory stick on which she had recorded each precious word her mother had written during those final months of her life.
‘My father was a reputable editor.’ Unable to control his anger, he moved from the window to the wall behind his desk where a replica of the photograph taken at the official opening of the new building hung. He pointed to his father, a silver-haired man with the same sloping cheekbones and thick eyebrows as his son. ‘I will not allow you to undermine his reputation. If he’d received the slightest hint that such a terrible crime had been committed, he would have published every detail. Even if Jack Bale had hushed it up, which I don’t for a minute believe he did, James Molloy would have battered down the doors of the Garda station for information. As my wife would have done had she given any credibility to your story.’
‘I’m trying to join the dots together and find out exactly what happened.’ She pleaded with him to listen to her. ‘That’s why I’m hoping you’ll give me space―’
‘Space?’
‘I want to put a notice in your newspaper asking the public for information on Marianne Mooney’s murder?’
‘Her what?’ Exasperation hardened his mouth.
‘She died giving birth to the child of the man who raped her. I’d call that murder.’
‘You’ve strayed very far into conspiracy territory, Adele. Tragic and all as Marianne Mooney’s pregnancy was, you haven’t offered me a shred of evidence to convince me that she wasn’t… wasn’t…’
‘A slut? Is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘Those teenage years are barbarous.’ His eyes glistened with what looked suspiciously like tears but could also have been the hard sheen of denial. ‘Cruel things were said about her.’
‘Then help me, Bob. You’re the voice of Reedstown. Give me space to tell her story―’
‘Enough.’ His brusque interruption signalled an end to their conversation. ‘I’ve been patient with you but what you’re asking is impossible.’ He sat back at his desk and pulled his laptop towards him. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve an appointment in five minutes. If you need further archival information, I suggest you use the National Library.’
Out on Main Street, she forced herself to slow down and allow the breeze to cool her cheeks. Rage had become her new normal. It overrode her distress that she had lost someone she believed would have supported her. The story of the Thorns was not an easy one to tell, Julie Thornton had said. Too many layers to peel away. She was right. Layers of lies, contradictions and denials would bury the truth. Marianne’s diary was irreplaceable but her mother’s words would soon reverberate through Reedstown and far beyond. It was time to demand restitution.
She entered Katie’s Kasket and ordered a sandwich with coffee. Overhead, a fan moved slowly but barely stirred the hot air. She forced herself to eat. Living alone, she seldom cooked anything substantial, depending on takeaways and ready-made meals. She and Daniel had loved cooking, vying with each other to produce elaborate meals and forage for unusual herbs and spices.
He contacted her every day on WhatsApp, sending photographs of himself and his team on-site, checking charts, measuring distances, photographing landscapes. Madison Fox featured in some of them, blending in with the others yet always standing close to him. Adele refused to acknowledge the flare of jealousy she experienced when she recognised her dainty figure in a hi-vis suit and helmet. She trusted Daniel, just as he trusted her to complete her search and join him.
She slept restlessly, awakening at the slightest sound. When morning came, she stood at her bedroom window and stared out at the river. An angler was already on the Loy, knee-deep in the silvery flow, his broad outline partially shrouded by the early mist. Even from that distance, she recognised Jack Bale’s bulky frame, his arm flung back, then arching forward.
26 Julie
Keith Lewis arrived first at Holywell. As always when meeting him unexpectedly, Julie was forced to gather together all her reserves and greet him calmly, politely. She visualised her mind as a locker room filled with compartments that she could open and close at will. He greeted her with a hug, then followed Liam into his home office. Jack Bale arrived shortly afterwards, all bonhomie and compliments about how Julie still looked like a teenager, which she knew to be untrue, but he made it sound believable. Shortly afterwards, Bob Molloy rang the doorbell.
‘Good gracious me.’ Julie was careful to hide her surprise when she saw him. ‘My husband never told me an old boys’ reunion was taking place tonight.’
‘How are you, Julie?’ His expression was terse as he entered the hall and gazed around him. ‘This is like stepping back in time.’ He stared upward at the soaring ceiling decorated with angel covings and inspected the Christ statue crowned with thorns that stood on a marble table. He nodded in recognition at the religious paintings on the walls. ‘I thought you’d tear the place apart when you moved in.’
‘Liam doesn’t like change,’ she replied. ‘To be honest, I don’t even notice it any more. How’s Rachel?’
‘She’s good. Busy as ever.’
‘Give her my regards.’
‘Will do.’
She had met Rachel Darcy at Jack Bale’s retirement party. For a while it seemed as if they would become friends but, shortly afterwards, Bob Molloy, newly returned from New York, had put paid to that. Not deliberately, Julie would grant him that, but the enmity he felt toward Liam and Keith was as raw as when he first left Reedstown. The hostility dating back to their teens had seemed unbridgeable… until tonight. Her curiosity aroused, Julie was tempted to listen at the door but, like everything in Holywell, it was solid and heavy.
Her husband shared his mother’s taste in opulent Italian design, marble and glass, glossy lacquer screens, curves and swirls, plush leather – and Julie, whose taste ran to minimalism, had converted one of the cavernous rooms into her own space. Holywell was simply a shell with a roof and what she called her ‘burrow’ was her true home.
In her burrow, she snuggled into an armchair and switched on her laptop. As she expected, Stephanie was online. An hour passed without being noticed as she Skyped with her daughter. She missed Stephanie, who was in France for the summer with her grandmother. Cathy Boland had moved to Provence after her husband died. She could have stayed in Reedstown and settled into a resigned widowhood. Instead she chose to paint and chase butterflies and drink red wine in the shade of poplars.
Stephanie would be home in September, fluent in French, and, until then, the house had an echo that only she could fill with her clattering footsteps, her laughter and chatter. She was the one person who made Holywell into a home and not a mausoleum, which was what she and Stephanie called it behind Liam’s back.
The meeting was still under way when Julie entered the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Their voices were raised when she knocked on the office door. Unable to make out what they were saying, she opened the door and asked if anyone would like coffee. Liam’s face froze when he noticed her. He was leaning towards Bob as if taunting him, his fist clenched. Jack Bale’s arms were outstretched to create a barrier between the two men. He looked as authoritative as he used to do when he was strutting around Reedstown in his uniform. The tableau dissolved as everyone turned towards her.
‘Coffee, anyone?’ Julie asked again, only more nervously this time.
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Keith smiled and held out his arms, as if drawing the tension towards him. ‘We’ll be out of here in a few more minutes, Julie.’
The men left shortly afterwards but Liam remained in his home office.
‘Is it okay to come in now?’ Julie hesitated by the open door. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb anything.’
‘Come in.’
He had opened a small drinks cabinet and was pouring brandy into a glass. He filled another glass and handed it to her.
‘What was the argument about?’ she asked.
‘What argument?’ He stared blankly back at her.
‘When I interrupted you. I thought… it was obvious something was going on with you and Bob Molloy?’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Julie. We were simply discussing coverage for the Reedstown Festival. You know how pernickety Molloy gets when he’s asked to give out free space in his newspaper. Swear to God, you’d think he was publishing the Washington Post instead of a glorified newsletter.’
‘That’s harsh, Liam. He’s done a good job with the paper since he took it over.’
‘That’s an opinion, Julie, not a fact.’
‘Why was Jack Bale here?’
‘He’s treasurer of the festival and Keith’s its chair.’
‘I though there were eight members on the committee.’
‘What’s this, Julie? The third degree? We can sometimes make decisions without dragging everyone to a meeting.’
He finished his brandy and poured another. She held her hand over her glass and remained silent. Whatever had upset him, he had no intention of discussing it with her. Nothing new in that.
A cold fish, that was how she objectively summed up her husband after sixteen years of marriage. She had been slow to realise he was incapable of passion. He went through the motions, made the right moves and sounds, foreplay, after-play. Julie had no reason to fault him in those early years. Or define what was wrong? Perhaps, if she had tried to do so, she would have avoided making the one mistake that had kept her in a loveless marriage. These days, she could think just as objectively about the man who had rushed her into a tumultuous, passionate affair. Tall, handsome and unscrupulous, he had had all the attributes necessary to seduce an unhappily married woman – and to end their affair before she could start making demands.