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

by Laura Elliot

  She stopped outside Brooklime. The house was in darkness. When she rang Adele’s number, her phone went immediately to message. Her car was outside. She suspected Adele was deliberately avoiding her. She drove from the river and turned up Summit Road. The downstairs lights were still on in Hillcrest. After a short pause, Davina answered the door. She made no attempt to hide her surprise as she invited Rachel inside.

  ‘I need to speak to Keith.’ Rachel didn’t move any further than the hall and Davina waited, her eyebrows lifting, for her to elaborate.

  ‘It’s important that I speak to him immediately.’ She knew she sounded formal and curt. Davina, with a shrug, said, ‘If it’s private, you’d better see him in his study.’

  The study was separate from the open-plan design of the rest of the cottage, a small room festooned with old election posters featuring Christy, and more recent ones with Keith’s face. The newest ones, not yet on the street, were stacked against the wall. Davina, Rachel had heard, was hoping to win her late father-in-law’s seat when the by-election was announced.

  ‘What a pleasant surprise, Rachel.’ Keith’s disarming blue eyes sized her up as she entered the room. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m worried, Keith.’ She came straight to the point. ‘That’s why I’m here. Has Bob been in touch with you?’

  ‘Recently, do you mean?’

  ‘Tonight. Has he called or phoned?’

  ‘No. Not since last week when he was looking for a quote from me for a feature he was writing on the new refugee settlement proposal for Reedstown. Why? Is something wrong?’

  ‘We had an argument about Marianne Mooney. You remember her, I’m sure.’

  Perched on the edge of his desk, his hands in his pockets, he seemed utterly relaxed. ‘To be honest, I’d totally forgotten her existence until that blog went up. Even then, I found it difficult to remember her. She used to live in The Lodge and the publicity from that blog has had a huge impact on our privacy.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s been most inconvenient. If Bob contacts you, it’s important that you let me know.’ She was already moving towards the door.

  ‘Wait.’ He stood before her. His demeanour had changed, not outwardly, but his gaze was wary, speculative. ‘What gave you the idea that he would come here?’

  ‘Maybe I should have tried Liam’s place. Wasn’t that where you all met last time?’

  ‘We had a brief meeting about this year’s festival—’

  ‘Keith, save the lies for your wife. I know the truth about the night Marianne Mooney was raped.’

  He flinched, a barely perceptible blink, and continued to block her way. ‘If you were arguing with Bob about that kid, there’s absolutely no reason why he should make contact with me. The only time I ever hear from him is when he demands a quote for his newspaper, which he will inevitably distort.’

  ‘There was nothing distorted about what he told me tonight about that young girl.’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’ He sounded genuinely puzzled – but then, he had had twenty-five years to perfect the art of lying.

  She stepped closer to him. ‘I’m talking about the night Marianne Mooney was set upon by three animals. Nine months later she was dead. Consequences, Keith, we can’t escape them. Her death was a direct result of what happened to her in Blake’s Hollow.’

  She walked rapidly away from him, convinced she would feel his hand on her neck. But it was Davina who came from behind her and opened the front door.

  ‘Why did you think your husband would come here?’ she asked. She had obviously been listening to their conversation and her anger blistered the air between them. ‘Keith was never his friend, even when they were teenagers. Whatever friendship you believe existed between them was entirely in Bob’s imagination. I presume you’re aware your husband had a serious drug problem?’

  ‘There’s nothing in Bob’s past that we haven’t discussed. Nothing.’

  ‘Then you must know that Keith is always careful to avoid him,’ she snapped. ‘That same principle applies tonight. I suggest you check Barrow Lane in the search for your husband. Isn’t that where addicts go when they are looking for a fix?’ She closed the door on Rachel before she could reply.

  Driving back down Summit Road, Rachel was seized by the need to retrace her footsteps. The river… was it possible? Or a tree, a rope, so easy. Her heart thumped as her apprehension grew. Her phone rang. She recognised the number. Garda Roberts was on night duty at the station. She was young and still inexperienced, and all that was evident as she breathlessly asked Rachel to go immediately to Reedstown University Hospital.

  42 Adele

  ‘There’s been a shooting at one of those new apartment complexes.’ Adele was in bed when Larry rang her with the news. ‘A man is seriously injured. I’m sorry for ringing so late but I thought you should know about it. The shooter was Grad Wheeler.’

  The gun. She could see it in his hand, the barrel aimed between her eyebrows, sliding over the curve of her breasts, her taut stomach and onward, taunting her with its power. She sank back against the pillows and swallowed, hard. ‘When did this happen, Larry?’

  ‘A few hours ago. You’ve no reason to worry about that weirdo any more.’

  ‘Who did he shoot?’ A thought was building, brick upon brick, and leading her in only one direction.

  ‘Bob Molloy, the newspaper guy. Incredible, isn’t it? It’s clearly a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Black dots danced before her eyes. She heard a swooshing sound, as if waves were washing across shale. She bent her head to her knees and waited for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she could hear her voice screaming… Get out… get out… get out… were they to be the last words she would ever speak to him?

  ‘How seriously injured is he?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not good, I’m afraid,’ said Larry. ‘The unfortunate man was shot in the chest. Far as I know, there’s not much hope of him surviving.’

  Adele had no memory of how she ended the call or how she came to the decision to visit the hospital. It seemed predestined, as if it was the only course of action she could take.

  Earlier, she had refused to take Sergeant Darcy’s phone call. She had huddled on the bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, until the ringing stopped. Had she been searching for her husband when she rang, wondering if he had called to see Adele? If so, she must have known he was one of the three. Had she been shielding him from justice all along, while fooling Adele into believing she cared about discovering the truth? Adele allowed the thought to fade. This was not the time to be burdened by doubts. Her father was critically ill and she needed to see him one last time.

  Two squad cars were parked beside the ambulances at the emergency entrance. Adele hurried through the waiting room, where haggard-faced patients slumped in chairs as they waited their turn to be called. At the check-in desk, a tired-looking receptionist stared from her towards a computer screen.

  ‘What is your relationship to the patient? he asked.

  Tongue-tied, she stared at him, the word ‘daughter’ dying on her lips. Impossible to say it, to claim it, to even contemplate it. Far easier to lie than to admit the truth to this bleary-eyed stranger, who shook his head firmly when she said that Bob Molloy was a business colleague.

  ‘Only close family can be admitted,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Adele checked her mobile phone and rang the ‘missed call’ number. It rang for a long time and she was about to give up when the sergeant answered. Her voice sounded different, high and bewildered, drained of energy.

  ‘I heard… I don’t know what to say…’ Adele paused as she heard the intake of breath at the other end, the sharpening tone.

  ‘Who is speaking?’

  ‘Adele Foyle. I’m at reception. I had to come. But I’m not allowed up. It’s only family.’

  She waited for the sergeant to tell her to go home. That this was not Adele’s concern;
nor the time for futile gestures.

  ‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ Sergeant Darcy said.

  The woman who walked towards Adele seemed to have shrunk since the last time they had spoken. Her pale, lustreless eyes barely focused on Adele when she sat down beside her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

  ‘He came to see me tonight.’ Get out… get out… get out… ’I told him to leave me alone. I’d no idea… no idea…’ Adele made no effort to stem the tears running down her cheeks.

  The sergeant rummaged in her pockets for tissues and handed them to her. ‘Come with me,’ she said and rose stiffly to her feet.

  ‘She’s family,’ she called out to the receptionist, who looked up from the computer screen and nodded.

  The medical team had done their best, Rachel explained, as they glided upwards in the elevator. He was now on life support but the prognosis was stark. The sounds of the hospital were muted, the nurses moving quietly between the wards, hushed voices soothing restless patients. Two young guards stood to attention when they saw the sergeant coming down the corridor. She spoke briefly to them, then placed her hand on the small of Adele’s back and opened a door.

  The insistent heart bleeps and rhythmic breathing of the ventilator resonated with life in the ward where Bob Molloy lay. The graphs on the screens moved giddily as they choreographed his final hours. Apart from the dressing on his head he could have been in a dreamless slumber, but Adele knew as soon as she saw him that he had gone elsewhere.

  It was all so clear now. The primal surge of recognition when she met him for the first time. How easily she had dismissed that instant, believing it was of no more importance than the speculative glances she had exchanged with other men when she first arrived in Reedstown. How shocked he must have been when she mentioned Marianne. His disbelief that the past could rise and grab him so unexpectedly. She pressed her hand to his forehead. His skin was warm, soft.

  Stripped of vitality, his features had been honed to their bare essence. Adele released a long, quivering sigh as she saw herself reflected in the slant of his cheekbones, the arch of his dark eyebrows, his mouth… She turned her head to her shoulder, unable any longer to look at him. Whether it was the presence of death gently waiting, or the clutch of his wife’s hand holding on to Adele, she found the hate draining from her. It would return, but later, when she had the strength to endure it.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Adele.’ When the sergeant released her hand, the graphs on the screens seemed to jig with an even faster intensity. The bleeps stayed inside Adele’s head as she hurried towards the elevator. The mist had given way to rain. It fell with a soundless beat against the glass as the automatic doors opened and released her into the dawn. She lifted her face to the sky and was unable to tell if it was the rain or her tears that soaked her face.

  Reedstown Review

  The murder of Robert Molloy, editor and owner of the Reedstown Review, which occurred last night, has stunned the community of Reedstown. The mood in the newspaper where he was respected and admired for his work ethic and integrity is one of deep shock and sadness as his co-workers try to come to terms with his untimely death.

  Details are sparse so far but we are reliably informed that Robert (known affectionately to us as Bob) lost his life in an altercation that took place in the car park of a recently built apartment complex. He received one shot directly to his chest and was placed on life support at Reedstown University Hospital. A man has been arrested and is currently being questioned at Reedstown Garda Station. His period of detention has been extended to twenty-four hours.

  Bob Molloy was married to Sergeant Rachel Darcy, who is on compassionate leave until further notice. She has requested that the Reedstown Review be used to convey her gratitude to all those who have offered their assistance and condolences at this tragic time. Funeral details will be released at a future date.

  43 Adele

  Adele merged with the crowd, an anonymous mourner in a beige dress, a nondescript sun hat shading her eyes. Her grandmother had perfected the art of blending into her landscape and Adele hoped that she would be equally unobtrusive at her father’s funeral. Father… The hopelessness of the word, its utter waste, yet she kept repeating it, as she had on the morning she left the hospital, repeating it as she drove back to Brooklime; an orphan, destined never to know her parents. She dismissed her brief acquaintance with Bob Molloy as meaningless. His amiable manner and friendly smile had disguised a monstrous secret. How was that possible? His crime should have marked him in some way, blotched his face with guilt and shame.

  Her decision as to whether or not she should attend his funeral had been hard fought. That struggle still raged within her even as his coffin was lowered into the earth. Rachel was balanced so precariously at the edge of his grave that Adele feared she could collapse into that ghastly open space. Keith Lewis, standing tall above her, encircled her with his arms and drew her back to safety. She stood between him and his wife, her bowed presence emphasised by their solicitous presence. Was Adele the only person to notice her quick shudder when she moved away from them and scattered a handful of clay on the polished wood?

  As the burial came to an end and the crowd broke apart, Adele left. She had no interest in attending the funeral reception in the Loyvale Hotel or in speaking to Rachel. The time they had spent together at the hospital seemed unreal, a dream that belonged to neither sleep nor wakefulness. She was unable to recall the urge that had driven her there, yet there must have been a belief that Rachel needed her and that words would not be necessary to explain her decision. But there was nothing dreamlike about her last encounter with him. His shamed, abject expression would always remain with her. She wanted to brush his face with a different patina, remember him laughing as he wiped a dollop of mayonnaise from his bottom lip, his lively expression as she spoke about documentaries she had made for Voice Dox, even his fury as he confronted Grad Wheeler in the Kasket. Could he possibly have realised he was confronting his murderer? Was that the reason he was dead? She imagined him feeding off his own fury by confronting Grad. This time when Grad aimed the gun, he had pulled the trigger. What if she had listened to him when he stood before her in Brooklime? Would it have made a difference? But what words could he have found that would have eased her rage, earned him her forgiveness?

  She had phoned Daniel on the day her father was pronounced dead. She had reached the arc of her story and the hurts that had separated them seemed inconsequential, somehow. An automated voice on his phone told her he was uncontactable. When she rang Greendene Petro, another automated female voice with a southern drawl ordered her to press numbers. Eventually, she reached his answering machine and left a message. ‘I need to talk to you, Daniel. I found the person I’ve been searching for. And now I’m broken. Please ring me.’

  She had waited for his call all through that night and the following day. When it did not come she had wrapped his engagement ring in bubble wrap and posted it to him without a covering letter.

  Sergeant Darcy came to Brooklime four days after the funeral. What could they say to each other? Small talk seemed impossible under such circumstances; they did not even try to discuss the changing weather or the magnificent send-off Bob had received.

  ‘Under the circumstances I think we should abandon the formalities,’ the sergeant said. ‘Please call me Rachel.’

  She had been to the reading of her husband’s will. Her astonishment and shock when she discovered she was now the proprietor of the Reedstown Review was still evident. She looked as though she had been handed a poisoned chalice and was desperately anxious to pass it on. She intended selling the newspaper – maybe one of the big conglomerates would be interested – but for now it was business as usual with Bob’s subeditor in charge. This brief conversation petered out into an awkward silence, until Adele, handing her a cup of herbal tea, said, ‘How long had you known I was his daughter?’

&nb
sp; ‘Not long.’ Rachel accepted the cup and stared into the steaming liquid. ‘I confronted him as soon as I was certain. That was the last time we spoke.’

  The heartache of such a conversation. The pent-up emotions let loose between them. Had he struggled to defend the indefensible? Had she struggled to pardon the unpardonable and, finding that that was impossible, had her anguish driven him out into the night?

  ‘You said he came to your house,’ Rachel said. ‘Did he give you any indication where he was going afterwards?’

  ‘No. I didn’t give him a chance to tell me anything. I couldn’t believe that he…’ Adele paused, unable to continue.

  ‘Was your father?’

  ‘Yes. And that he was one of the three. He was in agony but I sent him away. Did I send him to his death?’

  ‘You must never think that, Adele. What happened to Bob had nothing to do with you.’ She was adamant, snapped from her own internal concerns by Adele’s question. ‘The Gardai haven’t yet managed to trace his movements after he left you but they will, I’m sure of it. I wish I could be part of the team but as Bob’s wife I’m not allowed to participate in the murder investigation.’

  Adele understood the reasons why Rachel Darcy needed to be kept at arm’s length from the accused. Her expression suggested that if they removed such constraints, she would tear Grad Wheeler apart, limb by limb.

  ‘How did you find out Bob was my father?’ she asked.

  ‘DNA. It wasn’t difficult.’

  ‘You had suspicions then?’

  ‘I hoped desperately that they were unfounded. I couldn’t live with them… they were destroying my marriage. Destroying what should have been the most perfect time between us.’ Her fingers were hooked into a knot of grief that seemed impossible to untangle.