Eager to Please

by Julie Parsons

  And then their mother was beside them too, calling out in alarm, the baby snatched up from its doze on the blanket, red-faced and yelling. And Rachel, calming, soothing, explaining, making everything all right again, sitting them down on her rug, offering food, pulling the loosened cork from the bottle of wine, handing the woman, Ursula Beckett, a glass, sipping one herself. Watching relief and comfort soften her body as she sat with the baby cradled on her lap, the girl melded to her side, even the older son relenting and sitting down beside them, accepting some strawberries and cream. So that ten minutes later all was quiet and peaceful as the sunlight splintered into sharp points of brightness on the tops of the waves that rolled in from the Irish sea.

  ‘You’re so good with them. They really like you. I’ve been so busy since I had the baby that I just don’t seem to have had any real time to spend with them.’

  It was getting late. They had eaten and drunk. They had played hide-and-seek, and catch, and skimmed pebbles across the tops of the waves. The baby had slept, and woken, been fed and changed, had slept again, and now he lay on Rachel’s lap, looking up at her as she angled her neck and bent her face down to his. Smiling and frowning, watching how he twisted his mouth into a reflection of hers, contorting his upper body with delight, and waving his hands as he tried to reach out and grab hold of her hair. She stroked the top of his head with her forefinger, feeling the gentle indentation where the bones of the fontanel had still not completely closed over. She thought of the last time she had done this. A visit in the prison. A privilege granted. A meeting in one of the prefabs, in private. A boy baby too. Very big and strong. Already bursting out of his new towelling suit. Bottle-fed. His clothes smelling from the last time he had got sick, in the bus, stuck in traffic on the North Circular Road on the way to the prison.

  ‘Jesus, Rachel, he stinks, doesn’t he? I should have brought something to change him into.’

  The air thick with tobacco smoke. Her old friend Tina, early release to have the baby, sticking to the conditions of her probation. In love, Rachel could see, with motherhood. Come back to visit, to show off her beautiful, healthy, six-month-old son.

  ‘Isn’t he lovely? I love him so much. I’d do anything for him, anything, Rachel.’

  ‘Will you stay off it all, will you do that for him?’

  ‘Anything, I’ll do anything. He’s so perfect and sweet. And he’s mine.’

  The baby, pushing himself up on her knees, reaching out to his mother, grabbing at her hair as she pulled him from Rachel and buried her face in the folds of his neck. Laughing at the smell of baby puke, taking delight in the daily routine.

  ‘Jesus, Rachel, I never knew you could do so much washing. All fucking day long, I’m washing and drying and changing. But you know what, I love it.’

  Tina, the worst of them all. The scar on her face running from behind her left ear down to the corner of her mouth. Countless convictions for drug offences, robbery, assault. A surface as hard as the metal grid on the window, but inside as soft and sweet as could be. A lover of stories.

  ‘Read it, again. Rachel, read the one about the princess and the frog. I love that one. Tell me another story, tell me about the children of Lir, the ones with the stepmother who didn’t want them. Make me cry, Rachel, so I can let go. Let me feel love. Look after me, Rachel.’

  ‘He’ll be dark, like Laura,’ she said, smoothing down the fine, soft fuzz which covered his scalp. ‘And his eyes, what colour will they be?’

  ‘They’ll be grey.’ His mother stretched and rolled over on her side, lying with her head propped up on her elbow. ‘He’s going to be just like his father. Laura’s the image of him. It’s funny that, isn’t it?’ And she sat up, taking a comb from her bag and running it through her hair, smoothing it down, and fastening it at the nape of her neck with a large tortoiseshell clip. ‘The way children in a family can be so different. Jonathan, for instance, is so like my father. He has all his expressions and mannerisms. It’s quite odd, because my father died five years ago. Jonathan barely knew him.’

  It was beginning to get cool now. The beach was nearly deserted. Only a couple of people walking with a dog far off, their figures silhouetted against the sweep of the bay and the dark hump of Bray Head off in the distance.

  ‘Your sons. Tell me, what are they like? Do they take after you or your husband?’

  She would describe the two boys.

  ‘The older is very dark. He’s not really academic but he works hard. He loves the outdoor life. He’s a very good sailor. And a great swimmer. He had some problems when he was a child. Reading difficulties, but he got over it all with a bit of remedial teaching. He’s very affectionate and he seems easy-going. Shy but not to be crossed. He’s not at all like his younger brother. If you didn’t know they were related you wouldn’t think it.’

  ‘And the younger one, what’s he like?’

  ‘Oh, he’s quite a star. Very clever, always did very well at school. Good-looking too, I must say. Tall and slim, light brown hair that goes fair in the sun. Very blue eyes. But a bit cold. Self-centred. Ambitious. And very moody. Can go from sunshine to thunder in the blink of an eye. He can be frightening when that happens. But in a funny contradictory way it makes him very attractive. Already the girls are after him.’

  ‘It must have been such a shock when your husband left you. How did they take it?’

  ‘It’s hard to know really. They don’t say much. They keep their emotions to themselves.’

  ‘And you, it must have been terrible. Were you very hurt? Did you know he was having an affair?’

  Rachel was silent.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ursula reached over and took the baby from Rachel’s lap. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just being nosy.’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. It’s good to be able to talk about it. Most people, our friends, were so embarrassed. And they didn’t want to take sides. And no, I was your classic stupid wife. I didn’t realize that he was involved with anyone else. And then he came home one night and said it to me straight out, and said she was pregnant and he wanted to marry her.’

  ‘And your sons, were they much help to you?’

  Rachel stood up and began to pack away the remains of the picnic. ‘They have their own lives to live. I don’t really want to drag them into it. You have to let them go, you know. It’s one of the first things you learn as a mother, I think. The importance of letting them go. Doing without them.’

  The girl and the boy were still down by the sea. They were playing an elaborate game. It involved building fortifications with some of the larger stones, constructing a waterway for the waves to wash through. Rachel stood and watched. It was quiet now. Behind her the woman was busy with the baby. She was changing his nappy, making him tidy for the journey home. Rachel turned and looked at her, then looked away. She moved quietly over the wet stones, down towards the children. The dark head and the fair head were together, concentrating on their task. They didn’t hear her feet sliding towards them. They didn’t look up. She could hear their voices, disputing, arguing. They looked very small there, before her. The sea rushed up, around their ankles and their calves. She could see the way it dragged back with it the smaller stones and pebbles. She saw how their bare feet dug into the soft clinging sand. She stopped and watched them. And wondered. Just for a moment. Thought of their mother and father and how they would feel. If something should happen to their children.

  She stepped closer and closer. Still they did not see her. She looked around once again. The mother was bending over the baby. He was crying. He sounded tired, fractious. Off in the distance she could see the people with the dog. They were far away now. They would not hear, no one would hear the double splash as the two children hit the water, as they thrashed and struggled, their legs and arms making the sea white with foam. And she would be there too. Wading in, wet to her knees, her thighs, losing her balance so she could no longer stand, her feet no longer able to grip the shiny, slippery stones beneath. Beg
inning to swim, reaching out for the children. Taking a deep breath and diving, reaching out and pulling them down to her, holding them close to her, their bodies limp now as all the air was pushed from them by the steady flow of the sea.

  No one would ever see, no one would ever know. I did everything I could, I tried, I tried, she would say. Watching the grief on their faces.

  And then the girl, Laura, looked up, turned her face towards her and called out, ‘Rachel, look at this. Isn’t it great? And isn’t my bit the best, much better than his? Aren’t I the cleverest?’

  A look on her round face that Rachel had seen before. So many times.

  ‘Look, Mummy, look what I’ve done.’

  ‘Look, Mummy, look at this.’

  ‘Look, Mummy, am I good? Am I a good girl? Am I the best girl?’

  She squatted down beside her, so the sea water pulled at her own ankles and legs, licking the hem of her trousers, and put her arms around the small solid body, feeling the smoothness of her skin against her cheek, as she whispered so only Laura could hear, ‘You’re wonderful, my sweetest heart, you’re the best. Always. The best.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘I’VE ASKED YOU both to be here to witness this search.’ It was early morning, eight-thirty. Bright outside, although already the sky was beginning to fill with threatening dark clouds. Jack stood in the sitting room in the Hills’ house in Rathmines. Dr Hill and his son Stephen stood before him. Their expressions were sour and unhelpful.

  ‘I’ve asked you to be here, as I said, to witness this search which I am about to undertake of the house, the gardens and the garage. I am informing you that I have the necessary documents to authorize this action. I have obtained a search warrant from the District Court for this purpose. You will be told of any objects that we wish to remove from these premises. I am sure that you will cooperate fully.’ And even if you don’t, he thought, looking at their faces, trying to read the mixture of emotions which paraded across them, even if you don’t, you can do fuck all about it.

  Dr Hill spoke first. ‘I don’t understand why this is necessary. I cannot believe that you seriously think that Judith was killed in this house. And by implication that I, or Stephen, had something to do with her death. We have both told you what we know. We have both been as helpful as we can to you and your,’ he paused as if to gather breath, ‘your ridiculous investigation. It is as plain as the nose on your face that this terrible crime had absolutely nothing to do with any civilized person, and everything to do with the scum, the gutter rats, the prison fodder with whom she spent two years of her life.’

  Would that it was that simple, Jack thought. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You may think that, Dr Hill, and that is the way it may appear. And please accept that I understand your grief and how you must feel at having lost your daughter in this way. I too am a father. And I have seen many others suffer what you are suffering. But try to look at it from where I’m standing. If you consider the evidence so far, from our point of view, you may see it very differently. For example, we have established that Judith was strangled, and that she was strangled with a length of rope. The kind that is commonly used as a clothes line. We have already, with your permission, taken a sample from your clothes line, and we have noticed that a piece was cut off the excess of it, and it matches, I’m sorry to say, perfectly, the piece that was used to kill your daughter. We know, roughly speaking, the time frame in which Judith died. And we have witnesses, your neighbours, who will say that they saw her here, in the house, during those couple of days. One neighbour is very specific. She says that as it happens it was her birthday and Judith called in with a bunch of flowers for her.’

  He paused and looked at them again. He was interested in the difference in their expressions. Stephen Hill now looked bored and disinterested. He yawned, openly, exposing his small white teeth in a way that reminded Jack uncomfortably of Judith’s, the way she had looked in the morgue when Johnny Harris pulled back her lips to reveal her gums. Sweeney was right. Brother and sister were very alike. The doctor, on the other hand, was nervous. He tapped his foot impatiently and fiddled with his tie, his belt, his expandable watchstrap, and one hand slipped into his trouser pocket and jingled the coins.

  ‘And then,’ Jack took out his notebook, flicking through the pages, ‘and then there is the question of the blood group of the foetus. The baby boy that Judith was carrying. The baby’s blood group was O. The same group as Judith. And also the same group as both of you.’

  ‘What on earth are you suggesting?’ Dr Hill straightened up. His face was suddenly red. ‘Do my ears deceive me? Can you be saying what I think you’re saying? Can you really be suggesting that my daughter, Stephen’s sister was carrying a child fathered by either of us? You’re mad, that’s what you are, Inspector Donnelly, stark, staring, raving mad.’

  ‘Really? Is that what you think? And you, Stephen, what do you think?’

  Stephen Hill looked at him for a moment, then smiled. ‘I think, Inspector Donnelly, that these days there are tests which are a lot more refined, a lot more conclusive than the crude blunt instrument of forensic science that you are wielding. So I suggest, before you make any more accusations, that you use them.’

  Touché, Jack thought, you little bollocks. And wondered just how long it would be before they got the results of the DNA analysis that they had requested. Join the queue, was the response from the forensic laboratory. Helpful as always.

  ‘All right.’ Jack moved towards the door. ‘Why don’t we just get on with it?’

  There were five detectives in all making their way systematically through the house. They knew what to look for. Anything. Anything at all. But in particular they wanted a match with the sheet in which the girl had been wrapped. A knife or scissors, some sharp cutting object whose blades matched the cuts inside her vagina and anus. Any traces of blood, no matter how small. And anything else, useful or otherwise.

  He walked through the hall towards the staircase which curved upwards. Dr Hill had made as if to come with him, but Jack had put him off. Said he’d prefer it if he stayed downstairs. Asked him to explain the layout of the house. Then left him drinking tea with Sweeney.

  Downstairs there was a small study, two large interconnecting rooms – a sitting room and dining room – and a dark poky kitchen. All were furnished with heavy antiques. Mahogany table and sideboard, high-backed sofas and chairs covered with faded chintzes, and sombre portraits that gazed down on every side. The garden outside was neglected and overgrown. Two apple trees heavy with fruit stood in the middle of the lawn. And on either side were long herbaceous borders, the plants smothered with bindweed and dock. Behind was the garage, a substantial brick building. Jack noticed that those of the neighbouring houses had all been converted into architect-designed mews.

  Upstairs on the first floor there were four bedrooms and a large bathroom. Jack could see that very little had been done to change the basic structure and fabric of the house over the years. The walls were covered in faded flowery paper. The carpets were threadbare. There didn’t appear to be central heating, and the bathroom was spartan in its fittings. A large freestanding bath, a heavy enamel hand basin, and next door a separate lavatory, with a cistern fitted high on the wall. Above again, up a smaller staircase, there were three more rooms.

  ‘There’s nothing up there,’ Hill had told him. ‘Just a couple of rooms that were servants’ quarters. In the days when you could get servants, that is. And there’s a storeroom too. Lots of old junk and rubbish. I keep on meaning to get around to clearing it all out, but somehow or other I never have the time.’

  ‘And Judith’s room, which was hers?’

  ‘When she came out of prison first I made her sleep in the room next to mine. I wanted to be able to keep an eye on her. So I suppose that’s what you could call hers. She’s been living in college for the last few months and she’s taken a lot of her books, clothes, personal things there with her. You won’t find muc
h of anything there.’

  He was right about that. It was a small narrow room and it was virtually empty. A high old-fashioned bed, neatly made, faced the door, flanked by a chest of drawers on one side and a small table on the other. The room was painted a dull cream. A faded rug covered the black-painted floorboards. The walls were bare. No posters, pictures, decoration of any kind. A tall dark wardrobe was pushed behind the door. He opened it and stepped back in surprise as he saw his own reflection swing suddenly into view in the full-length mirror inside. He smiled at himself and straightened his tie. He didn’t look so bad these days, he thought. Given what he’d been through recently. Especially given that he didn’t have a clue who had killed Judith Hill.

  And there were no clues here. A couple of pairs of faded jeans hung on wire coat-hangers. There was a coat of some kind of tweed and beside it a green wool blazer with a school crest on the top pocket. That was all. He stepped back and let the door fall shut again. There wasn’t much of use in this spartan, cell-like place. No books, no letters, no diaries or notebooks. Hardly even any clothes. And they hadn’t found too much either in her room in college. A lot of library books, lecture notes, and a box containing computer disks. Sweeney had scanned through them. All the files were related to her studies. Jack was surprised there was no diary of any kind. She seemed, he thought, for no particular reason, like the kind of kid who would have kept one. But they found nothing of that nature. And no letters either. No references to her mother, father or brother, at all. And none to Rachel or anyone else connected with her time inside.