The sly, cunning look came back into his eyes. He picked up his mug of tea and Maxine noticed how much his hand was shaking.
“They know sweet fuck all. They let your mother die.”
“She had cancer. They did what they could. Stop lying about arthritis and get some help with your drink problem.”
The knuckles whitened on the hand holding the mug, his nostrils flared, his eyes blazed. Maxine saw a flash of the angry, violent man who had terrified her when she was a child.
“How dare you! You think you can swan back here after all these years and then start insulting your father! Just because you get paid for showing off those stupid clothes doesn’t make you any better than the rest of us. You’re still one of the Murphys from Mountain View Terrace, no matter how you try to deny it.”
“I don’t deny it. I don’t have to. How could anyone associate Maxine Doran with a place like this?”
“We’re decent people, not like those shites you mix with now. Your crowd are the type who smile at you one minute and then stab you in the back the next. You’re young now, successful. Wait until you’re old, fat, sick. How many of them will be there for you then?”
“What are you trying to say? That you’ll be there for me if I need you? That you were ever there when I needed you?”
Insulting the quality of his parenting was a step too far for Paddy Murphy. He banged his mug down. Some tea slopped over on the newly cleaned table and formed a little pool that dribbled over the edge onto his clothes. He was too angry to notice.
“I worked my fucking fingers to the bone for you and your sisters!” he shouted. “Ye were always the best-dressed children in the terrace. Who do you think put food on the table for you, put shoes on your feet? You’re an ungrateful little bitch. Your mother and myself did without to give to you! Your sisters and myself have kept our mouths shut about you for years and this is the thanks we get!”
Maxine got up and found a cloth to mop up the spillage. When she came back, her father was topping his egg, tucking into his breakfast. He had always been the same. Roar, shout, bully and then behave as if nothing had happened. Maxine sat opposite him and tried to see the tired, sick old man he had become. There was still too much of the rough bully left for her to ignore.
“You never listened to me,” she said. “Neither you nor my mother.”
“You always talked bullshit. From your first words. You were different to the rest of us. A throwback to your great-grandmother. A snotty cow, like her.”
Maxine’s breath caught in her throat. This was it. This is what she had come here for. She would have to be careful now. Not make him angry any more. Calm him down. Besides, she had to admit that Paddy was sincere. By his standards, he had been a very good father. He had provided food and clothes and a roof over their heads. The essence of a happy childhood. Anything more would have been beyond his ken.
She wanted to reach across to him now and touch his shaking, veined hands. Her fingers remained curled around the mop-up cloth, refusing to move. The gulf between them was too wide, spanned too many hurts and rejections, for a mere touching of flesh to bridge. She looked away as a little river of egg yolk dribbled out of his mouth and onto his chin. Focusing her eyes on the cloth in her hand she spoke quietly to him.
“You’ve always said that I was like great-gran Harriet. I want to know about her, Dad. Who was she, where did she come from, what kind of a life did she live before she came to Mountain View Terrace?”
Maxine sensed that her father was sitting up straighter, that he had tapped into an area of awareness in his alcohol-dazed brain. He took in a deep, rattling breath.
“What do you want to know about that old bag for? I can’t tell you much anyway. I never knew her.”
“What was her name?”
“Harriet of course. Harriet Murphy. Married to Thomas Murphy, your great-grandfather.”
“No, before that, who was she? What was her maiden name?”
Maxine looked up and saw the cunning look come to the fore on her father’s egg-stained face. He seemed to be calculating how much the information he had was worth to his wealthy daughter. Or maybe he had none but would make something up. Paddy Murphy had been a good liar. Probably still was. She picked up her bag from the chair where it rested and took out the photograph of Lady Harriet Wellsley’s portrait that Andrew had given to her.
“Is this great-gran Harriet Murphy?” she asked, pushing the photo across the table to her father.
Paddy picked it up and made an issue of peering at it and holding it close to his rheumy eyes. “Where did you get this?”
Maxine paused before answering. Should she tell him or wait to see if he knew anything of his grandmother’s background? Play him at his own game.
“I saw it in an art gallery,” she lied.
He was still staring at the photo. “There was a photograph of her. An old tattered, browny one. Your great-grandfather, Thomas, kept it in his pocket until the day he died.”
“I know. I have that photo.”
Paddy ignored her as he examined the picture in his hand. “Yes, this is her. See the head in the air? The way she looks down her nose? Just like you do. That’s why I always said you were so like her. She thought she had married beneath her and she let everyone know, including my henpecked grandfather. Thomas was a decent man. Gifted at handling horses. Not so good at handling women though. He should have taken a whip to the old biddy.”
Maxine cringed.
He put the photo down and peered at his daughter.
“Why have you really come back here, poking into the past? Are you trying to find royal connections or something? Pretend that you are one of her crowd?”
“Who were ‘her crowd’? What was her family name?”
“How the fuck should I know? Nobody ever said. Some kind of aristocracy I think. She had disappeared well before I was born. My grandfather never talked much about her. Not to me anyway. All I know is that her son, my father, married in 1925 and she wasn’t here then. My father often spoke of her though. He said she was a tyrant, a stuck-up cow.”
“She disappeared? What do you mean?”
“I mean she just wasn’t here any more. My father said one day her place at the table was empty and nobody said why. Those were the days when children spoke only when they were spoken to. Even though he was nearly twenty by then he couldn’t ask or he would have got a clip on the ear. Proper order too. Not like now –”
“Did she die?
Paddy just shook his head and, suddenly losing interest, dropped the photo onto the table.
“Angela has four children now,” he announced.
Maxine just nodded. She had no interest in the size of her sister’s brood. It was obvious to her that her father knew very little about his grandmother. Communication had never been the forte of the Murphy clan and as far as Harriet was concerned they seemed to want to forget her. Except of course the recollection that she was snooty. Just like her great-granddaughter. Just like Maxine.
“Remember that old biscuit tin Mam had with all the old papers in it? The one with the garden scene on the lid? Is that still here?”
Paddy shook his head. “Naw! I threw that out after your mother died. She was a fright for hoarding.” Then he narrowed his eyes and peered at Maxine. “Oh, I see! You’re looking for certificates. You think you’ll find out who Harriet was if you see her marriage certificate to Thomas Murphy. What’s your game, Marie? Are you trying to get an inheritance or something?”
Maxine did not bother answering him. She wasn’t sure of the answer anyway. She got out her phone and ordered a taxi, cleared off the table, gave her father a fistful of cash and then for the second time in her life turned her back on Mountain View Terrace.
Chapter 13
Jason smiled as he put down the phone. What a way to start the day! He had just had a very satisfying conversation with Dirk Van Aken. It was nice doing business with Dirk. This was only the third shipment he had handled for
the Dutchman but when he saw the incredible profits he regretted not being involved a long time ago. Jason was a wealthy man now. No denying that. But he had worked his butt off, slaving and scheming, building up his portfolio of blackmail and threats in order to get ahead. He could have been mega-rich a long time ago if he had met Van Aken sooner.
He and Dirk had evolved their own shorthand for their phone conversations. Just in case some nosey fucker was listening in, prying into places where they had no right. In the course of their seemingly innocuous conversation, they had arranged that Dirk send gaming machines to Jason. For the Eureka Club. An innocent exchange. Money for machines. Jason grinned as he thought of the deal he had struck. In Holland, the gaming machines were packed with some high-grade cocaine and heroin before crating. Dirk only supplied the best. The crates were then loaded on a Laide Transport container and would duly arrive at the main Laide depot in Ireland for unloading, then the goods filtered to buyers through the distribution network Jason had set up. The operation worked like a dream. This little shipment would pay for the pub in Ballyhaven and also, hopefully, the Fords’ fifty-acre site there. That should free up a lot of resources for the purchase of Manor House and the inevitable alterations Sharon would want to do. A few more shipments would help set up the Casino.
Jason reached into his jacket now and took out his notebook from the inside pocket. Carefully, in his childish hand, he wrote the details into his little leather-bound book. It wasn’t that he particularly distrusted Van Aken. It was just that he didn’t trust anybody. Just as well to have all the agreement down in black and white. As soon as this notebook was full he would transfer it to the Salzburg safe. Sharon had her uses.
Apart from wheeling and dealing, nothing excited Jason Laide as much as controlling a woman. He had the best of both worlds now. Maxine Doran had proved yet again that she was not strong enough to stand up to him, and Ella Ford, the hard-nosed businesswoman, had shown him a vulnerable side. That was a double-edged sword though.
It was obvious that Mrs Andrew Ford had been crying yesterday. Walking the fields, falling off rusty gates and crying. Jesus! Maybe the rumours that she was completely off the wall since her car accident were true. But it was much more likely that she had somehow found out that her husband was playing away from home. Did she know that Maxine Doran was the slapper in question? And there was the downside. If she did know, then Jason no longer had as strong a hold over Andrew Ford.
Jason shrugged. What the hell! It would be a lot more entertaining to screw the fifty-acre Ballyhaven site out of Ella Ford. She was a very attractive woman in a dark-haired, well-groomed, cultured sort of a way. A little like Sharon.
The happy, in-charge mood dwindled as he thought of his wife. The multi-million-euro home he was buying for her deserved some appreciation, a modicum of gratitude and respect. Sharon didn’t seem to care. Of course she was interested in owning Manor House. As she had said “Who wouldn’t be?”. But the fact was, she had made no effort to come home. She was still skiing in Salzburg or one of those unpronounceable resorts. Flying down the slopes with a young man in her wake, laughing with him, making love to him on a rug in front of the blazing log fire. Doing all the things she never did with her husband. Bitch!
For the first time since they had met and married, Jason resented Sharon and regretted the compromises he had made to stay married to her. He didn’t need her any more. Not for his business anyway. He had bought his own way into respectability now. A few more shipments from Van Aken and he could buy the fucking country, let alone the respect of the gobshites who ran it. His fingers drummed impatiently on the desk as he considered what he would say to her. Get your ass back here or else stay with your gigolo? How would she react to that? Probably just with a shrug of her shoulders.
It was a complication that Sharon was the keeper of the documents, photos and videos which had been the foundation of his empire. His precious blackmail stash. His insurance against ever seeing a poor day again. She had them all locked away in the safe of the Junkergasse house in Salzburg. The one in the creepy basement with all the old furniture and wine bottles. They had never discussed the stash but Jason was sure that she would not have gone through it. He was sure for two reasons. One, she would be terrified to disobey his strict orders never to poke into his private business – she knew what she had coming if she broke that rule. The other reason had to do with the thing Jason most admired in his wife. Her breeding. In her book prying into someone else’s business would be rude... Even your husband’s. She had obviously chosen to keep her eyes closed and her hand out. Or had she? She was a very clever woman.
Jason’s fingers stilled. His breath stopped. His heart skipped a beat as he at long last began to suspect Sharon of having a plan. A very clever plan. Why the fuck had he never seen it before? How had he been so idiotically stupid? It was not in his nature to trust, yet he had given her all the information, all the evidence, all the ammunition to destroy him. She was custodian of everything from Maxine Doran’s porn video right up to Oliver Griffin’s IOUs. She could, if she wanted to, go to the police, show them a list of his offshore account numbers, his shell companies, his money-laundering system. His blackmail cache of dirty little secrets. Fuck! How had Jason Laide, the tough guy who had dragged himself up by the bootstraps, so stupidly put himself in such a vulnerable position?
Jason stood and began to pace as he admitted the answer to himself. He could pretend it was sex. And it had been in the beginning. Sex with Sharon was different to sex with anyone else. It was wild and abandoned. Satisfying. But that had been just the bait, the lure that had reeled him in. The truth was he had been equally as enthralled by her beautiful pronunciation, her social grace, her manners and culture, as by her dark-eyed beauty. He had wooed and pursued her until she had agreed to marry him and he had never asked himself why a socialite like her would marry a working-class upstart like him. Nor had he ever really asked himself why he had so desperately needed her to become his wife. She had opened doors for him, yes. Given him a veneer of respectability, introduced him into the circle of powerbrokers that ran the country. But the truth, the fact that he had hidden so carefully from himself, was that he loved Sharon. Soppy, sentimental, mind-bending, gut-wrenching love.
Jason stopped pacing and stood stock-still. He began to feel angry. This was a weakness in the strong character he had perceived himself to be. He knew himself to be. No more! He’d show Sharon who was boss in their relationship. Striding over to the phone, he quickly dialled the number in Salzburg. It rang out. He dialled Sharon’s mobile. It was switched off, out of range, silent.
Needing to do something to alleviate his anger, he pulled off his wedding ring and threw it as hard as he could across the room. It skittered along the floor and rolled to a stop underneath a chair. He looked at it, glinting dully from its hiding place. Jason decided at that moment that he was never going to put it back on his finger.
If Sharon would not talk to him on the phone, he would go to see her. As soon as he had a few things straightened out here, he would go to Salzburg. Sharon would discover what a dangerous game she was playing. A game that she would never win.
* * *
Andrew was thinking about Maxine as he went into his office. He was a bit worried about her fixation on Manor House. He had understood yesterday that she had just wanted to see the portrait of Lady Harriet Wellsley in situ. He had had no idea that she was so carried away with the idea of actually buying the property and developing a restaurant there. There had been no dissuading her. She even had an appointment set up with her accountants for this afternoon. Maybe they could talk sense into her. On the other hand, maybe she really had the funds and he was the one who needed the talking to.
He put his briefcase on the desk and tried to put Maxine out of his mind. Not an easy thing to do. She seemed to have infiltrated every fibre of his being. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to indulge for a few seconds in thoughts of her. Then he sat at his desk and got out hi
s ‘to do’ list. It was busy, busy, busy. Some major decisions to be made. The Coxes would be back soon. They would be wanting an answer on the Ballyhaven site. There were a number of clients to be seen about the new Cox apartments. The units were selling off plan as quickly as if they were going at a bargain price instead of the exorbitant money they were costing. Then there was the deal to close on Sharon Laide’s house. That had gone for way over the guide price too. Ella should be handling that. She had dealt with the buyers.
Andrew sighed in frustration as he thought about his wife. When he had gone home last evening, she had been lying on the couch, a bag of frozen vegetables on her foot. She said she had tripped over a section of broken pavement and twisted her ankle. She had seemed flushed, agitated and even a bit shifty. She had refused his offer to bring her to the hospital for an x-ray. In fact she had refused his every offer of help. In the end, he had given in and left her in peace. She had slept on the couch last night and was still asleep as he was leaving this morning. Maybe he should ring Peter Sheehan, see what his opinion of her condition was. He might later on.
Just as Andrew was about to contact the first person on his client list his phone rang. He recognised Jason Laide’s rough voice instantly.
“It’s your wife I wanted to talk to,” he said rudely.
“I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment, Mr Laide,” Andrew said, gritting his teeth and hoping that he sounded cooler than he felt. He had an instinctive dislike of this vulgar man despite his buying power.
“When will be she back?”
“I’m not sure. She had a slight accident. Tripped over a broken pavement actually. Hurt her ankle.”
“Really? Tripped, did she? On a pavement?”
Andrew heard the mockery in Jason’s voice and he was furious. It was obvious that Jason was implying Ella had been drunk. If the sale of Laide’s present home and the potential sale of Manor House were not so profitable, he would tell this barely disguised thug where to go. Pragmatism won. Andrew found his polite business tone again.
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