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

by Laura Elliot

  ‘He seemed so nice, yet he…how could he do that to my mother?’

  ‘Don’t ask me to answer that, Adele. He tried to explain but I’m not here to make excuses for him.’

  ‘Do you know the identity of the other two?’

  ‘Nothing that can be proved, especially now that he’s… gone…’ She paused, as if surprised by the impact the word had on her, then slowly released her breath. ‘Now that he’s gone there’s nothing to implicate them.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Adele longed for names, shapes to put on them, but they remained a blank sheet that she might never be able to fill.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you,’ Rachel replied. ‘It’s dangerous information. I know what happened on the night Grad Wheeler attacked you. I’ve had confirmation from his girlfriend who was a witness to his actions. He came at you with a gun and threatened—’

  ‘Stop.’ Unable to listen, Adele silenced her with a wave of her hand.

  Was it the same gun that killed him… her father… Rachel’s husband? Rachel must have also been grappling with that same awareness when she stood up with a muttered apology and asked where she could find the bathroom. When she returned to the kitchen her eyes were red-rimmed. Adele suspected she had been crying soundlessly behind the closed door, but she seemed more composed. Her years of training came to the fore as she brought their meeting to an end.

  So much left unspoken regarding those final hours she had shared with her husband. So much still unsolved regarding the chain of events that had led to his death.

  ‘I’m on compassionate leave for now but when I’m back on duty, I promise I’ll do everything I can to bring those men to justice,’ she said. The determination of her face could not be doubted. Was it feasible that she would unmask them or was she simply whistling in the wind?

  The file being prepared for the DPP would state that Bob Molloy’s death was due to misadventure. An unfortunate case of mistaken identity. Grad Wheeler would be charged with manslaughter. The Gardai had received information that his name was on a hit list over the non-payment of a drug debt. Grad knew he was a target and he had mistaken Bob for a hit man. Bob would have sounded furious when he emerged from his car, threatening, and dangerous enough for Grad to turn and fire once. A clean strike.

  Over the following weeks, Adele watched Rachel running along the river path in the evenings. She had always run before her husband’s death and she was intent on continuing the same routine now. Sometimes she stopped off at Brooklime for a cup of herbal tea, camomile being her tea of choice, not that it helped her to relax. She was taut-strung as a bow wire, her compassionate leave still ongoing. Was it difficult, if not impossible, to cope with being one of the questioned rather than the inquisitor?

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know.’ She shrugged when Adele asked. ‘Right now, I don’t think I’m capable of feeling anything.’

  She quizzed Adele about her future. Did she intend hanging around Reedstown indefinitely? This time it was Adele who shrugged. She could return to London and gather the scattered rags of her old life around her. But the thought of beginning again without Daniel was too painful to consider. A trip to New Zealand was possible. Siobhan Miley had invited her to visit her home. They could work as a team on Glorious Survivors Together. Siobhan had received photographs of birth certificates, anonymous admittedly, but invaluable information, and she was still in a state of disbelief as she processed them.

  One evening, alone in Brooklime, Adele wondered about the face of evil. Was it possible to tell the difference? Friend or enemy, they all looked alike to her, bland-faced and unremarkable. Would she pick Jack Bale out from a crowd and think him evil? Grad Wheeler? Bob Molloy? No, she would pass them on the street and assume them to be men with untarnished reputations.

  The man hesitating outside the gate, seemingly unable to make up his mind whether or not he should enter, was equally unreadable. Adele watched from behind the curtains as he came to a decision and rang the doorbell. Her car was outside and she had opened the upstairs windows to allow the day’s heat to escape. He must know she was cowering out of sight. Did that please him, knowing he had the power to terrify her? Or perhaps he was simply an innocent man sent to read her electricity meter or canvass her opinion on the forthcoming by-election. When she didn’t answer by the third ring, he closed the gate behind him and walked to the edge of the river. Two swans swam past him with stately indifference and the dog woman came towards him, wheeling her dog in its buggy as usual. She stopped to speak to him and the man bent to have a conversation with the dog. The elderly woman laughed and clapped her hands before pushing her buggy onwards, the terrier straining to look back at the stranger.

  Adele was standing at the front door when he crossed back from the river. He stopped when he saw her and pushed open the gate.

  ‘Adele Foyle,’ he said. ‘I’ve wanted to speak to you ever since I read your blog but I’ve been abroad until now.’

  ‘If you’ve come to complain about it, let me save you the trouble,’ she said. ‘I’ve closed it down.’

  ‘I noticed.’ He nodded. ‘I’m sure you had your reasons for doing so. But I’m not here to complain.’ His smile was hesitant, his eyes searching as they roved over her. ‘My name is Shane Reagan.’

  His handshake was firm enough to convince her that he was flesh and blood and his arms around her, when she told him she was Marianne’s daughter, were strong enough to keep her upright.

  In the days that followed, it was difficult to resist the urge to touch him to see if he was real and not some imaginary figure who would disappear if she looked the other way. His story was similar to the entries in Marianne’s diary but he breathed life into it. Adele listened raptly as he described how he had been delayed leaving home by his mother on the evening he planned to meet Marianne. A jackdaw had nested in the chimney of their house and the living room filled with smoke when Carrie Reagan lit the fire. By the time the smoke was cleared and the nest dislodged, Shane was thirty minutes late. A bird nesting in a chimney. A bird nesting in an attic. The irony was not lost on either of them.

  Hurrying and unaware of anything except that his time with Marianne was so short, he had been taken by surprise when two figures suddenly appeared in front of him and pulled him from his bike. Had he arrived as arranged, he would have fought to his death to protect her and she would have fought alongside him. As it was, he was stunned by one of them before he had time to register what was happening. When he recovered, he staggered into the cottage where Marianne, almost senseless, screamed and cowered away from him. She had scratched at his arms when he tried to lift her, too traumatised to recognise him, until his voice broke through her terror. Only then was he able to carry her from the cottage. She was like a rag doll, he told Adele, and almost as lifeless.

  He had found the cigarette packet close to her. The cardboard was too hard and dry for it to be part of the litter that blew into the cottage. He had pocketed it, hardly aware of what he was doing until he reached the Garda station. When he pointed out the Chinese writings on it as he was handing it over he was silenced with a blow to the side of his head from Sergeant Bale and removed to a cell.

  He never saw her again. The only people who believed he was innocent were his mother and the local curate, Father Breen, who came with her to the Garda station. He remembered the argument that broke out between the priest and Sergeant Bale as to why Marianne had not been brought to hospital. Rosemary had collected her daughter by then and the Garda statement had been signed. He had always believed Marianne had been coerced into signing it and he had wept openly when he read the last diary entry Adele had posted.

  Three days, he said, that was all it took to uproot him from Reedstown and return him to Australia. The only silver lining in that dark cloud had been the reuniting of his parents. Carrie had joined the Reedstown Reminiscences Facebook group to keep up with the friends she had made in Reedstown and when she read the announcement about Adele’s blog, she had immedi
ately made Shane aware of it.

  He was in Afghanistan then, a war photographer and constantly on the move. So many war zones to cover, he told Adele. Reading the diary was like watching a familiar film, he said. One that he had constantly replayed in his mind, only now the actors were in different positions and the spotlight had a harsher shine on those who had betrayed Marianne.

  No wife. There had been opportunities but he had never been able to commit to a long-term relationship. Was Marianne the reason? He was non-committal when Adele asked. Twenty-five years was too long to hold a memory but the sight of her huddled figure on the floor still played on his mind. It was not an image to take with him into any marriage, he admitted.

  His jaw hardened when he heard how the chilling touch of a gun pressed to Adele’s skin had caused her to abandon her search for justice.

  ‘Where is he now?’ he raged. ‘Tell me where I can find him.’

  She could imagine him felling Grad or his accomplices with one blow. He had the wiry toughness of someone familiar with violence and unfazed by its viciousness. But he would be gone soon and she would be alone again.

  ‘Right now he’s in jail, awaiting trial for the murder of my father.’ Bluntly and without emotion, she outlined the details of her last conversation with Bob Molloy. How she turned her back on him, unable to accept his truth, his shame, and how, in doing so, he had walked blindly to his death. It was important to remain in control. To allow herself to fall apart increased the chances of never being able to fit the pieces together again. The wrong place at the wrong time. It was all so awfully random – but if anyone understood random tragedy, it was Shane Reagan with his war stories and restless memories. The youthful lustre had gone from his eyes, he admitted. His blue gaze had sharpened, and his expression was whittled down to an acceptance that he would never make sense of chaos.

  A swallow in an attic, a strand of hair tangled in an engagement ring, a smoking chimney: all insignificant in their own right until fate arranged them like dominoes and allowed them to fall.

  44 Davina

  The annual Reedstown Festival had been Davina’s idea and, now in its fifth year, it was proving to be as successful as she had anticipated. A mix of music, literature and debate, it allowed the village to flex its intellectual muscle. This year she had decided to add a one-day conference with a top-notch line-up of speakers to the programme of events. Her only problem was persuading Babs Shannon to be her guest speaker. The author had a suspicious nature and accepted nothing on trust, which was why Davina had been forced to take a precious day off from her by-election campaign to meet her face-to-face.

  She ordered a gin and tonic from the trolley and settled back to enjoy her flight to London. She could ill afford the time to cater to Babs Shannon’s ego, but needs must if she was to convince the author that speaking at the Women’s Unstoppable March Towards Gender Equality Conference was an offer she could not refuse.

  In the grounds of a small hotel – where Babs was obviously well known, if the welcome she received from the staff was any indication – they discussed the conference. Was Davina holding it to inspire women to fight for equality or using it purely as a platform to promote her own political ambitions? The author had a direct stare, not cold, exactly, but challenging, as if she was measuring every word Davina uttered. The garden was scented with summer stock and bounded by a weathered stone wall, an oasis in the centre of London, Babs said. She came here when she was having difficulty with her books and always left feeling rested yet decisive.

  She politely grilled Davina on her attitude towards the homeless, on climate change and immigration. How would she address these issues if she was elected? Her scrutiny was unsettling and Davina was tempted to walk away. Her other guest speakers had been only too happy to accept her invitation to speak at the conference, so why was this author playing hard to get? Grovelling was not in Davina’s nature; but Babs Shannon ticked many boxes. As a mother of four, she would appeal to the maternally minded. Her seven self-help books, always in the bestseller charts, would appeal to the needy as well as to the ambitious, and her commitment to the issues they were discussing would attract the activists. Babs had addressed audiences at numerous international conferences but, despite her Irish roots, had never agreed to participate in an event in her home country. It would be a feather in Davina’s cap if she could add her name to the list of speakers.

  ‘I’m flattered you’ve taken the time to see me and honoured to have been considered as one of your speakers.’ The author’s polite tone suggested she was about to refuse. ‘I’m still uncertain if it’s the right platform for me. I avoid mixing my message with politics and, if you’ll forgive my observation, I believe you’re using the conference as a means of advancing your own political profile.’

  ‘That will be a side effect,’ Davina admitted. ‘But I’m genuinely interested in balancing the gender gap. That’s why I’m anxious to present not only an inspirational line-up of female speakers but also the most formidable.’

  ‘You think I’m formidable?’ Babs sounded amused.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You write with such certainty yet with an understanding and level of clarity that suggests you’ve overcome many obstacles to achieve your success. I’m a huge fan, have been ever since I read your first book.’

  Davina lied with sincerity. She was not a reader of self-help books but Julie, who read them avidly, had filled her in on the details. Obviously, the information was spot on; Babs began to open up, especially when Davina enquired about her children.

  ‘All adults now,’ she said. ‘But you never stop worrying…’ She paused. ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘No,’ Davina said. ‘Not all of us are so blessed.’

  For the first time since they met, Babs seemed flustered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’

  ‘No, please, don’t be sorry. I’ve compensated. My work is fulfilling and this conference, well, I suppose you could call it… my baby.’

  Always pick the right words. Christy’s voice came back to her. She missed his wiliness. Keith was a pale substitute, too conscious of his poster boy image. She turned her attention back to Babs, who was saying, ‘You said Reedstown, yes?’

  Davina nodded. Bab’s expression was thoughtful as she steepled her fingertips and brought them to her chin. ‘I’ve heard of it, I think. Is it on the north side of Dublin?’

  ‘Yes. Nowadays, it’s quite unrecognisable from the place I grew up in. But the changes have been good. Marvellous facilities for young families and a fantastic community spirit that helps our newer residents to assimilate. I’m actively involved…’ Seeing Babs’s eyes shift to a spot above her shoulder and aware of her tendency to sound like a political newsletter, Davina fell silent.

  ‘Lewis?’ The author’s tone was questioning. ‘Have your family always been involved in politics?’

  ‘My late father-in-law was the local representative. Keith, my husband, followed in his footsteps.’

  ‘And whose footsteps are you following?’

  ‘I walk my own path.’

  ‘But under the Lewis name.’ The slight twist of her bottom lip suggested she disapproved of women who abandoned their surnames when they married. ‘What was your name before then?’

  ‘Maye.’

  ‘Davina Maye sounds very appealing. Why abandon it? Was your husband’s name more powerful?’

  She asked the question with a smile, which took the sting from her comment, yet Davina had to control an urge to walk away. Babs Shannon, for all her success, was annoying to be around. She couldn’t put her finger on it but it felt very much as if Davina was being judged and found wanting.

  ‘I’m tight on time.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’d hoped I could convince you to speak at my conference but if you’re still set against it then we should end this meeting now.’

  The author had a long, graceful neck, which she now inclined towards Davina. ‘I�
��m delighted to accept your invitation.’

  ‘That’s absolutely wonderful.’ Relieved, Davina stretched out her hand. ‘It’s going to be a fantastic conference. How long since you visited Ireland?’

  ‘Not since the nineties.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, what a long time. You’ll be amazed by the changes.’

  ‘I’ll probably also be amazed by how much some things have remained the same,’ the author replied as they shook hands on their agreement.

  On the flight back to Dublin, Davina struggled against an unexpected swell of alarm. She tried to relax, yet the fluttery sensation of having made a wrong decision persisted. The author’s capitulation had been so sudden. No, Davina told herself, playing hard to get was probably just her modus operandi. The fee Davina was offering and the number of books she would sell at the conference had probably been at the back of her mind all the time.

  Davina needed to control these snake-like slithers of panic that were attacking her at unexpected times. She was troubled by Keith’s attitude, his moodiness since Christy died. Despite their rivalry, she knew how much he had depended on his father for advice. He had seemed to be coping at first but the death of Bob Molloy, and Rachel’s unexpected arrival at their house that night, had affected his mood even further. His moroseness was not what she needed when Reedstown and the surrounding areas were festooned with Davina’s by-election posters. As the other half of a new political duo, she needed him strong and forward-thinking, but Adele Foyle’s continuing toxic presence in Reedstown was not helping; nor was the unexpected arrival of Shane Reagan.

  ‘Davina Maye, I do believe,’ he had said yesterday when they met by chance on Main Street.

  He jerked his thumb towards one of her election posters. ‘Though maybe I should call you Mrs Lewis?’

  Confused by the Australian intonations in his accent, she had no idea who he was until he smiled and the years rolled back.