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

by Laura Elliot

  ‘Shane Reagan…’ His name out of her mouth before she could prevent it. ‘And yes, the name is Lewis.’ She had laughed self-consciously. ‘I’m an old-fashioned kinda gal. What are you doing back in Reedstown?’

  ‘Waiting to be arrested.’ He still had the same direct gaze Davina remembered, a challenging stare that demanded she remember why he had left Reedstown. ‘It’s time I had my day in court.’

  ‘Sergeant Bale has retired,’ she said. ‘So, I wouldn’t worry too much about the past. I presume you’re here because of that diary?’ She was awkward in his company. Too many memories unfolding to allow for easy conversation.

  He had nodded. ‘Amazing what the internet throws up, isn’t it? Just as well it wasn’t around when Marianne Mooney’s character was being assassinated. Word of mouth was bad enough back in the day but nowadays cyberbullying has added a whole new dimension to it.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say this, Shane, but no one believes that diary.’

  ‘I believe it.’

  ‘Of course, you would say that. But the whole truth was there in her statement for all to read.’

  ‘You still actually believe I’m guilty of raping a minor?’

  ‘Obviously not. We all understood it was consensual but, legally speaking, once she signed that statement, you’d committed a crime. Tough, I know. You can call the law an ass and complain about the scales of justice being out of kilter, but your guilt was writ large in black and white.’

  ‘Mmm…’ He took a step back, his gaze quizzical. ‘I see time has not softened your tongue, Davina. Not that I’d any expectations that it would.’

  They parted shortly afterwards. After twenty-five years, they had nothing to say to each other. She heard afterwards that he was staying with Adele in Brooklime and would be participating in her documentary. That woman, always lurking like a viper at the back of Davina’s mind.

  In an effort to distract her thoughts, she opened her laptop and checked the bookings for the conference. Martina Spellman was already spreading the word about Babs on social media. The publicity had only just started yet the response was immediate. The power of the internet. Gratified, she jotted down the opening lines of her keynote address; then deleted them. Later, when she had had time to shake off her uneasiness about Babs Shannon, she would begin again.

  45 Rachel

  The phone rang early in the morning. It was still dark outside, too dark for a call to bring anything other than bad news. Rachel was right to be prepared. Detective Sergeant Kevin Magee broke it gently to her. Grad Wheeler was dead. The man who put a bullet through her husband’s chest had been found hanging in his cell. Cocky and confident of an early release, according to the prison warden, he had not been judged by his officers to be a suicide risk.

  The morning news came on the radio. Rachel stared dully at the opposite wall as she listened to the details. The prison warden was interviewed, his measured words outlining the procedures in place to prevent such tragedies. He asked how the prison authorities were supposed to know if a prisoner was at risk of suicide when he showed no outward signs of distress?

  Why such confidence? Such cockiness? His belief that strings would be pulled to release him. Rachel had no doubt in her mind that he had been murdered by the same person who had sent him to Brooklime to terrify Adele, and to an apartment car park to await her husband’s arrival. Murdered to silence him.

  She moved slowly through the following days. Showering, dressing, eating, jogging, sleeplessness, the same routine. The brisk busyness of Reedstown Garda Station snapped her to attention when she entered it on the fourth day following Grad’s death. Detective Sergeant Magee gave her a guarded welcome. He listened politely to her suspicions but believed there was no evidence to suggest Grad Wheeler’s death was anything other than a straightforward suicide. The reality of life imprisonment had got to him in the small hours and he had decided to opt out. He swept aside Rachel’s concerns with sympathetic but steely determination.

  She left the station and crossed the road to the Kasket. Davina’s confident and arresting smile was visible on posters attached to telegraph poles. The front of Keith’s constituency clinic was adorned with his messages of support for her.

  A hush fell when Rachel entered the Kasket. Some diners smiled sympathetically, others turned away. People were embarrassed by her grief, unsure how to support a woman whose husband had been murdered and who was now bereft of justice. A hard one to square, Rachel agreed to herself as she found an empty table. Katie brought her the usual pot of herbal tea and a croissant. She sat with her for a moment and squeezed her hand when Rachel told her she was doing fine… fine.

  The arrival of Davina Lewis a short while later caused a frisson of excitement among the diners. She shook hands with those nearest her and stopped to admire a baby in a buggy. She was a consummate performer and she, like her husband, would take to politics like a duck to water. Front of house now and happy to kick the door of the back room closed behind her on the way out. She noticed Rachel just as she was about to kiss the baby’s head and, straightening, she crossed the café towards her. They had not spoken since Bob’s funeral, when she had sat with Keith in the front pew on the opposite side of the aisle to Rachel. They had acted like chief mourners, accepting handshakes and condolences from the congregation. Rachel had somehow found enough energy to be angry then but, now, she simply felt indifferent as Davina gestured towards the chair opposite her and asked permission before sitting down.

  ‘I intended calling on you this week but I’ve been so busy.’ She leaned forward to touch Rachel’s clenched hands and smiled sympathetically. ‘I was in the constituency clinic when I saw you leaving the Garda station and decided to have a word. How are you bearing up?’

  ‘Getting by, thank you.’

  ‘You must have been shocked to hear about that young man’s death.’

  ‘Very shocked.’ As descriptions went, it was probably apt, she thought, but she no longer had the words to define her feelings.

  ‘I need to apologise to you for my behaviour on the night Bob went missing,’ Davina said.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’ She resisted the urge to leave the café. Davina had a reason for being at her table and she must wait for her to reveal it.

  ‘Hear me out, Rachel,’ she said. ‘It’s important that I clear the air between us. ‘Tensions were running high all round and I said some very regrettable things to you. Keith and I would have been so much more supportive if we’d realised how deeply Bob had become involved with Grad Wheeler.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Rachel demanded. ‘Bob was not involved with Grad Wheeler. You know as well as I do that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve upset you. I’m so sorry, Rachel. That’s the last thing I intended to do. I assumed you’d read the report―’

  ‘What report?’

  ‘It’s just an online piece. Purely speculative.’ Davina waved a dismissive hand in the air. ‘It’s too trivial and sensational to make it to the print media. I’d never have mentioned it if I’d realised you hadn’t seen it.’

  ‘Thanks for your concern, Davina. Don’t let me detain you any longer. You must have a busy day ahead of you.’

  ‘Non-stop busy until election day,’ she said. ‘I’ve a meeting at the clinic with four of my volunteers… which reminds me.’ She caught Katie’s eye and waggled her five fingers in the air. The barista, who appeared to know everyone’s preferences, immediately busied herself at the coffee machine.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Rachel, and take time to recover. I believe you’ll be on compassionate leave for an indefinite period, which is good. I’m not one for platitudes but time is a great healer. Sometimes, that’s all we have to help us recover from appalling tragedies.’ Such determination in her stance, that same ruthless force Rachel had witnessed when she called to Hillcrest in search of her husband on that dreadful night.

  On the way to the counter whe
re Katie was placing five coffees on a cardboard tray, she stopped again to exchange pleasantries with the diners and hand out leaflets. Rachel waited until she had left the café before she checked her phone. The feature that had gone online detailed the history of Bob Molloy, respected newspaper owner, now dead, with a history of drug addiction, and Grad Wheeler, known drug dealer, now also dead. Rachel didn’t need to read beyond the opening paragraph. She knew the muddy path this story would take until all that remained would be the mud, sticking.

  By the following morning her dead husband’s youthful history had made it to the broadsheets as well as the tabloids. Publicity was cloying its way towards her like an oil slick and the media had moved into position on the pavement outside her house. She gave them a standard reply. All queries must be handled by the Garda press office. The reporters persisted, waiting for her to emerge or attempting to contact her by phone and email.

  Inspector Morrison, her superior officer, made no bones about his reason for extending her compassionate leave. Too many loose ends that needed to be tied up, he explained. Better for her to lie low until all the facts surrounding the two deaths had been thoroughly investigated. It was important on many levels to prove that her husband had not been caught up in a drug deal that went tragically wrong. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances surrounding Bob’s death, it would be necessary for a Garda team to search her house. Essential to rule out any personal connection between the two dead men, he said.

  The team who arrived managed to be both efficient and sympathetic. Bob’s computer and her laptop were removed. Garda Roberts gave her an impulsive hug when the search ended, then stepped quickly back, as if fearing a reprimand.

  Afterwards, Rachel felt as if her house had become an unfamiliar terrain and she must make her way carefully through the once-familiar rooms. She thought about the times she had carried out such searches in other people’s homes, filled with the conviction that she was doing her duty, weeding out wrongs and balancing the scales of righteousness. She had never once considered the effects that such rigorous, impersonal searches would have on the families of the accused. Their sense of being trapped in a cage of someone else’s making and unable to escape.

  The reporters had called it a night and the space where they gathered outside the gate was clear when Shane Reagan called with Adele to see her. How relaxed they looked together. An easiness that came from being blameless in events that unfolded without their knowledge yet had ordained their futures.

  Rachel felt an instant kinship with him when they shook hands. He understood what it was like to stumble into hell. She was not surprised to discover that he was a war photographer. The Marianne Diary had brought him back to Reedstown, determined to prove that Marianne had been coerced or deceived into signing that statement. He knew about Bob. Adele had told him everything that mattered.

  ‘I liked Bob.’ He sounded more bewildered than angry. ‘We were friends for a while but we drifted apart when he began to hang around with Keith and Liam. He changed. Drugs… but you know all that.’ He had kind eyes, sympathetic.

  ‘He claimed it was only in his dreams that he remembered what happened that night,’ said Rachel. Talking about Bob was torturous and she had no sense that it would ever be any easier.

  ‘If it’s any consolation to you, I believe he was acting out of character that night,’ said Shane. ‘He had a serious―’

  ‘What happened to Marianne cannot be blamed on drugs or alcohol.’ She was not prepared to make excuses. ‘He went there with the intention of doing harm. It turned uglier than planned but evil can never be relied upon to stick to the script.’

  Adele’s eyes glittered. No sense keeping the names from her now. She had already identified them and was slowly, carefully compiling her information. Her father’s daughter. Rachel turned away from her direct gaze and opened a small, wooden casket that Shane had laid before her on the table. Inside it, she found an oblong-shaped box wrapped in sheets of tissue paper. Discoloured by age, it held nine withered cigarettes.

  ‘This is the packet I found in Blake’s Hollow,’ Shane said. ‘I hardly knew what I was doing when I picked it up but I do remember thinking it could have fallen from one of their pockets.’

  He told her about how he had claimed the packet was a clue as to the identity of one of the perpetrators; how he was silenced and imprisoned by Sergeant Bale and the box tossed into a bin. How, later, after his mother arrived with Father Breen to take him home, he managed to retrieve it. And how, since then, the box had travelled everywhere with him.

  ‘I look upon it as a kind of talisman,’ he explained. ‘I know it sounds daft but I believe that as long as I keep it with me, I’ll find justice for myself and Marianne. There was only one person I knew who smoked those cigarettes. Keith Lewis. Going to China was a big thing in those days and he had brought a few cartons back with him. I was too shocked and confused to make the link then and when I did, my mother closed down the discussion. Carrie was traumatised by what had happened to me. She was afraid that if she tried to open an inquiry, the statement Marianne made would land me in jail. In hindsight, it seems incredible that we let Bale get away with it but when we heard that Marianne had died that, somehow, seemed to put a seal on the past. My parents were together again. Carrie had gone back to college and I was starting my own degree course, so…’ He spread his hands outwards. ‘All very trivial in the light of what had been done to Marianne but it’s the small, normal things that make it possible to move on from a great wrong.’ He was close to tears and Adele, who also looked weepy, said, ‘It can’t be too late to bring them to justice, Rachel.’

  Justice. The word sounded as stale as the cigarettes. She thought of Keith Lewis standing by the side of Bob’s grave. How he had laid his hands on her when she staggered, an ostentatious gesture visible to all. Liam Thornton had been there also, staring expressionlessly into the yawning space that would soon be occupied by her husband’s coffin. And Davina, so magnificently confident that her husband was untouchable. Was that the same ruthlessness with which she and others had destroyed Marianne’s reputation? Was the media focus a continuation of that same campaign? She took the cigarette packet from Shane and rewrapped it. An inquiry into that fateful night would never be opened. But that did not mean she was powerless. Shane Reagan had invested in this crumpled relic. His talisman. Her weapon of choice. She replaced it in its casket and snapped the hinged lid closed.

  Jack Bale was surprised to see her. More than surprised, Rachel thought as he faced her in his doorway. She wondered if he would leave her standing outside but, after a slight hesitation, he led her into his kitchen. No trout laid out on this occasion, but the same cat lazed on the outside window ledge.

  ‘A sad, sad time,’ he said. ‘How are you coping?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, thank you.’

  ‘You’re still on compassionate leave, I gather.’

  ‘For the time being, yes.’

  ‘That detective can’t be happy with the publicity that’s been building in the media.’ His gaze gave nothing away. ‘Magee thought he had the case wrapped up with sealing wax until the reporters decided there was another angle to it. Are they giving you a hard time, Rachel?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle, Jack.’

  ‘Takes its toll, though. I see the impact it’s having on you. Not sleeping well, I’d hazard to guess.’

  ‘I’ve a lot on my mind.’

  ‘Well, as you’re not a woman given to courtesy calls, I imagine you’ve come here for a reason.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m here to discuss my husband’s murder. Grad Wheeler did not shoot him over some botched drug deal, as you’re only too well aware. Those lies being reported in the media have originated from only one source. You need to stop them right now.’

  ‘Goodness me, that sounds remarkably like an accusation.’ He thrust his chest forward and sat a little straighter.

  ‘You stitched Bob up onc
e and you’re intent on doing it again. So, yes, it is an accusation.’

  ‘I understand how grief affects the mind, Sergeant Darcy. That’s the only reason I’m willing to overlook such an outrageous comment. I always had the height of respect for your husband―’

  ‘I’m well aware of what you did for Bob. Respect had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘I know who was responsible for the gang-rape of Marianne Mooney.’

  ‘Gang-rape? What a curious term to use.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it’s the right one. I have enough evidence to prove you covered up that crime with the connivance of Gloria Thornton, Christy Lewis and my late father-in-law. How much did they pay you to exonerate their sons? Handsomely, I suspect. It must have been so much easier to stitch up Shane Reagan. You forced him to leave the country or else he would stand trial on a trumped up charge that you were prepared to bring against him.’

  ‘How dare you.’ His chin jerked, as if the impact of her accusation had landed a punch on him. ‘Could I respectfully suggest that you confine yourself to mourning your dead husband instead of attempting to besmirch his reputation? You’ve no grounds for making such a fantastical accusation and I must warn—’

  ‘Bob is way beyond my care now, Jack. He was haunted by what he did to Marianne—’

  ‘High jinks that got a bit out of control? Come on, Rachel, you’re a sensible woman. Forget this nonsense and start building your life again.’

  ‘Like Shane built his life again? Did you know he’s back in town? He wants his day in court and is more than happy to produce evidence that he took from the scene of the crime. Papers never refuse ink and, as I now own the Reedstown Review, it will take very little effort to redress the balance in Marianne’s favour. Call off your media hounds, Jack, or I will destroy you and bring those other two down with you.’