‘The threat was a hoax. It was based on a lie,’ Slattery said flatly, assuming that Marshall would be more concerned with whatever dirt the blackmailer had gathered on him. ‘But then, you’d have known that already, wouldn’t you?’ Slattery looked at Iris, suddenly, everything was falling into place.
‘Where’s Mrs Marshall now?’ Iris’s voice came as if it had travelled from a great distance away. When she caught Slattery’s eye, they both knew they’d had it wrong – well, she’d had it wrong. On the journey out here, he’d asked if she’d wager on Kit or Susan – she’d have lost, she realised now. ‘Where is she?’ Iris was shouting now, but she knew the answer, they all did. The lights in the distance had begun to die down – Iris hadn’t noticed them reduce from half a dozen to three, to two and now there was just the one. ‘Does she stay out there alone? Has she been trying to find her all this time because…’ Iris didn’t need to finish the sentence.
‘Look, there has to be a mix-up, you’ve got it wrong. Susan wouldn’t…’ Marshall was staring too at that single flash lamp moving stealthily in and out of the trees in the distance. ‘You don’t realise, Susan couldn’t, she’s weak and damaged, she’d never do something like this. All these years, I’ve had to protect her from herself.’ And he waved towards his forearms and Iris knew then, that the marks on Susan’s arms were not inflicted by her husband, but rather by herself.
‘Rachel McDermott was convinced you were her father,’ Iris said.
‘But that’s nonsense.’ Kit seemed to sink lower into his chair.
‘Really? Well, maybe Susan didn’t think so and an illegitimate child surfacing after all these years, spreading it about the papers that you’d sent one child to Curlew Hall and turned your back on the other? It wouldn’t do your reputation a lot of good, would it?’ Slattery shot across at him.
‘So, you’re saying, you think Susan killed the McDermott girl because she threatened to go public?’
‘Someone paid her a couple of thousand to keep her quiet,’ Iris cut in.
‘And then she went there? That night, to Curlew Hall, hit this… blackmailer over the head and then killed Karena?’ He was shaking now so much that the whiskey began to spill over the side of his glass. He placed the drink as gently as he could on the occasional table next to him. ‘Not Karena?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Iris said softly and she meant it, because suddenly she could see Marshall for what he was – a vulnerable older man. Since the start of this investigation, he’d lost a daughter, perhaps he’d pushed the other away, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t regret it and now, facing a trial, all his money wouldn’t keep this out of the papers.
‘No, no, you have it wrong, don’t you see?’ Marshall was shaking; his whole body had begun to tremble with something Iris wasn’t sure qualified as shock or delayed guilt. ‘Susan would never hurt Karena, she loved her as much as I do… you can’t think she’s out there to hurt, Eleanor, you just can’t!’ he said before wracking sobs overtook his body.
‘Let’s go, we’ll deal with him later,’ Iris said and she was almost at the front door before Slattery had made it to the hallway. ‘Come on, we can’t let her find Eleanor first… we know she’s close at hand, she has to be, we need to get her before Susan does.’
Thirty-Three
When they pulled in to the clearing – where until only a short time earlier the search team had parked – it was empty apart from Susan Marshall’s Range Rover. They stood on the verge of the woods, surrounded by an unnerving silence and enveloping blackness. Iris did her best to keep her eye on the weakening glow of the only flashlight left in the trees.
‘At least the rain’s stopped.’ It had, if only for a brief respite. Slattery had told her coming over that there would be a thunderstorm in the next hour; they needed to get Eleanor out of here before that struck – no one wanted to be in the middle of the woods for the damage that lightning could cause.
‘Look,’ Slattery said and she saw where he was pointing: the tiniest pinprick of light.
‘Christ, she’s headed for the mountain?’
‘Currant for cakes,’ Slattery said as if there was nothing he’d like better than scaling the side of the Comeragh mountains in a force-ten gale with thunder and lightning thrown in to liven things up.
‘And reasons for everything?’ Iris finished for him. When Slattery said it, he pronounced reasons, raisins and always smiled at his own humour. ‘What’s she thinking?’
‘Bloody mental cow,’ Slattery said under his breath, ‘but she must have a reason, perhaps she’s seen something, she has to be following her, otherwise, there’s no way…’
‘Christ.’ It was enough to mobilise Iris. If Susan Marshall was following Eleanor up the side of that mountain in this weather and if they were right about her having already killed two people in cold blood, then finding and killing Eleanor would surely be child’s play.
They set off along the track. Slattery had called for back-up on the bumpy road across from the Marshall place. It’d take them half an hour at least to get out here. Now, as they moved along a muddy path, Iris listened as the rain began to spatter overhead, first a light fingering of the leaves and spindly branches at the tallest point of the trees, then, gradually, building up to a full downpour. Soon, the rain was cascading from the canopy overhead, at the sides and beneath their feet in unseen ditches. Water gushed, hard and frantic, as if it couldn’t get away from what was ahead fast enough. It was a combination of the sound of it and the fear that bubbled up in her, that made Iris’s heart beat fiercely in her chest. They couldn’t let her die. They couldn’t let all of this be for nothing.
After a while they came to a wide drain, separating the mountain from the woods. Iris could see the soft root-strewn ground give way on the other side to stone and uneven rock. A slim stile provided a bridge from one side to the other and, somehow, Iris felt that once they crossed over, they were leaving behind not only the cover of the leafy canopy from the rain, pouring fast and furious now, but also the protection of the trees from something much darker.
‘It doesn’t make sense, any of it. Why would Susan Marshall pay out money for an illegitimate child that didn’t exist?’
‘Because she doesn’t know. She’s afraid of anything coming between her and that lifestyle she’s got going,’ Slattery puffed.
‘So, she just paid up without even asking?’ Iris said breathily.
‘Perhaps she just went out to Curlew Hall to buy more thinking time?’
‘With a hammer?’
‘As far as she was concerned, probably Rachel had them over a—’ Slattery cursed. He’d made a good attempt at getting across the stile, but banged his leg on the way down, falling awkwardly on the jagged stones below.
‘Are you all right?’ Iris bent down, flashed her phone at where he lay on the ground to inspect the damage. There was almost no need. From the crack when he’d fallen, she could have told him he’d broken something.
‘This is the last bloody time I bring you on a bloody romantic walk,’ he panted, but there were tears in his eyes and she knew the pain must be excruciating. Iris switched on her flashlight to examine the wound. He’d managed to land awkwardly – a good chance he’d broken his ankle at the very least, never mind the rest of his leg or the bones in his foot. There was no point saying that to Slattery, it wouldn’t do him any good.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, look, you can’t move…’ She started to search about frantically, there was no cover here and an ominous roll of thunder scudded about in the sky overhead. ‘You’ll have to wait until the emergency services get here.’ At least Slattery had called them already. They’d have an ambulance on standby, the only problem was, it was meant to have been for Eleanor.
‘You’re not going in there on your own,’ Slattery said as sternly as he could manage, but they both knew he couldn’t stop her and maybe, they also knew, he wouldn’t have anyway. A girl’s life was in danger; no one joined the Murder Squad to sit on the fenc
e.
‘And I suppose you’re going to come with me, are you?’ she said, keeping her voice even.
‘Iris, the woman is mentally unstable. She’s killed two people.’
‘All the more reason to go in there and give Eleanor a fighting chance. Now, stay here.’ She smiled, he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. ‘You have your gun, if that thing…’ She let the words fade, not wanting to make it any more real than it might appear in her nightmares. ‘Well, you know, we can account easily enough for a bullet in a’ – she straightened herself up – ‘in self-defence.’
Then she looked towards the mountain. It was in complete darkness, perhaps her own torch had alerted Susan that she was being followed.
‘Well, be bloody careful, no flipping heroics, right?’ he shouted after her.
‘Not on your life, I’ll be back before…’ She smiled then, looked at him, lying there prone, was that concern in his eyes? ‘Promise, I’ll be back before closing time.’
‘Bitch.’ He called after her, but she had a feeling he’d have smiled if it wasn’t for the agony of his ankle.
In some ways, walking on the rock was easier. At least here, the ground was solid. There were no roots crossing unexpectedly, tripping you up and throwing your movement out of rhythm. The only downside was the rain, making everything slippery, and Iris wasn’t sure if she was imagining it or if it glittered on the ground beneath her feet as she ran. Occasionally, up ahead, she thought she caught glimpses of a flashlight, throwing brightness over and back, as if rooting through the landscape for an elusive treasure. Iris steadied her course so she was moving towards the beam, only too well aware that it might be extinguished suddenly. By her crude reckoning it was at least another fifteen minutes on foot, but now the wind was driving rain into her face and her clothes were strapped soaked to her body, she was not able to move at a brisk pace; sheer desperation drove her on.
The light went out once more and she cursed, realising that she hadn’t been looking where she was going, not really. She’d only been watching that beacon in the distance and now she had come to the end of the stony plate and she was knee deep in mud and rushes. The water and soil squelched, horrible and cold, around her legs, icing her feet and she cursed, but managed to do so under her breath. She waded out to the side, she would have to keep going, just head for the mountains’ peak – with a little luck, the beam would surface again and she could steer herself back on course.
The clouds overhead rumbled forebodingly now and she counted the seconds after a loud boom. Ten. Ten long, cold, wet and frightening seconds and then the sky lit up – a long sheet of electrifying whiteness that brought a pristine, if somewhat weird brightness to the vista ahead of her. Iris had been counting the seconds to figure out how far away the storm was; her father, well, Jack Locke, would have said that meant it was about ten miles away. That didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that she moved fast. She was very close. She’d seen a flash of someone, caught in a stream of brightness from what looked like a moving flashlight, arms and legs and hair trailing behind, running wildly down the mountain.
Eleanor was coming straight for her. The only problem was, Susan was right behind her.
Thirty-Four
Eleanor’s body ached as it never had before. She ran, blindly, drunkenly, knowing only that she had to run. It was all she could do to stay in front, the leaves had ambushed her, the trees made her dizzy, their trunks passing by her, arms outstretched. She thought they were her allies, until she needed them. Would she never learn?
Her mind was clearing. Thoughts were rushing through her, racing, faster, faster and her feet kept hitting the damp ground, keeping up. Where was she going? West, towards the evening sun? Running away from morning light? It was foolish. Should she just stop now? And if she got there, what would she do? Throw her arms around her mother? No. Susan had never been her mother and Susan had killed Rachel, she’d seen her, she remembered now. There was no taking back those moments. She had forgotten that.
It seemed to her now – with the clarity these last days had given her – that she had forgotten far more than she really remembered in those moments after Rachel died. Must be the pills, they took so much away. The memories had become soft focus, evolving into a lifetime of days in the garden, on the beach, helping her forget a lot of the other. Not a bad thing, maybe. Maybe she should turn back now, before it was too late. She couldn’t, and she only half knew it. There was something after her, chasing her down like a wild animal. When she saw that face earlier, intent on her plan, she knew she had to run.
A low rumble of thunder overhead made her jump. The sleepy veil that had cloaked her senses thanks to the scores of antidepressants was beginning to lift. What a wonderful gift secreted below. Beyond it, all her memories were safely stored, like hidden treasure. Pandora’s box? She longed to sit, just for a while, and delve into them. Taking them out, turning them over in her brain, remembering, feeling the warmth, feeling what it was to be loved.
Then Susan was behind her, it was becoming a muddle. She dived over, hard and far, falling for long seconds into what felt like a watery eternity. In that minute, she looked at her: terror. Susan’s face was filled with it. Was she afraid of the water? After everything she’d done to Eleanor, was she afraid to get wet? Eleanor laughed hysterically as she hit the icy palms of water that waited for her. She drifted easily downstream. It would take her some time to catch up on foot. Now she was behind her and somehow, bad and all as Curlew Hall was, she knew without doubt, it was better than what her stepmother had in mind for her. A shiver ran through her floating body, she would catch up, of that she was certain. Above her head, grey clouds rallied to cut the moon from her eyes. Would she make it home before Susan found her? She was determined to try; she had another score to settle before she rested.
The water was cold, it flooded into her wellington boots, and she stifled a scream, too late to turn back. She was a good swimmer, she’d learned in the sea. The memories rushed back to her now. The sun shone, scarcely warming the ice-cold west of Ireland waters that lapped from the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. There were screams of delight, were they hers? Her father had been there, he’d held Eleanor gently in the water, floating her on her back, carrying her over the waves, smiling each time he lifted her over the swelling water, helping her feel the rhythm of the sea. They were like any other family on the beach, their little family, just the three of them. Their picnic discarded until they were so tired and famished that warm egg sandwiches and flat lemonade tasted like the greatest treat ever. They ate hungrily, wolfing down the sandy food, Eleanor and Karena laughing, enjoying the summer sun, the lapping water, childhood.
She stopped a tear cascading down her cold cheek. Those days were gone. Where are you now? A tear plopped into the water. She turned, pushing the thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t think of that now. Oh, how she’d love to turn back the clock to those happy days. Surely, they were just a dream.
She was swimming now, the water icy through her hair, the current dragging her away from the banks. She lay on her back, floating, her eyes open, and the black sky overhead rumbling through the uneven ceiling of thickly whipped grey clouds. She lay there for some time, enjoying the sensation, floating along, to she knew not where. Ophelia, in her watery bed: goodnight sweet one.
The sweep of the foliage on both sides and the heavens opening over her head welcomed her while she glided further away from the world as she knew it. Then something snagged her, she felt her wellington pull her up. The sensation scared her; she was no longer floating across a galaxy of water. Now the rush of the current was battling against her and she was stuck. She began to struggle, the water covering her face, surging up her nose, into her mouth, her head dragging beneath the level of the water. The force of the torrent against her was becoming too strong to turn. She raised her head once more. On her right, the bank was only feet away. She surged her body across, hoping to grapple some piece of stray foliage. She tried to ma
ke contact with the roots of a tree or even some abandoned branch, cast aside on one of the many windy nights she heard howl outside her window. She managed to bend across almost in half. She felt the action crippling her stomach, the unnatural force of the river against her; too much for muscles so unused to any physical exercise beyond walking. The effort was draining her.
She felt the water pound her body further down into the river. Was this a seizure? Was this the end? Oh, not here, not now. She wanted to live another day. She wanted to go home to her father. Once more, she pulled her head above the water, gasping in fresh breath, snatching the view of the banks on either side. She lowered her head, right down, as far as she could to reach to the bed of the river. It was no good; all she could see was darkness, extending down, down, down. Eleanor felt her blood drain from her body. She was stuck, the water greedily sucking her down. The landscape above was fast disappearing – dark green merging into murky grey. Soon it would be little more than a hazy utopia, hardly discovered – the lost hope of what might have been. The moonlight, what there’d been of it, was vanishing fast behind scudding watery clouds. She closed her eyes. Accepting this was it. Her life, for what it was, at an end.
Then something happened. At her back, an almighty crash; a huge log was thrashing downstream. It heaved her forward, throwing every thought of giving up from her mind. With a surge, she raised her body once more towards the left, her arms outstretched, ready to grab anything protruding through her watery jail. The force was unbearable; she heaved with every ounce of strength she could muster, pushed using every grain of energy. And then she could see light, she was coming up, up towards the top of the water, her body twisted, something snapped, she didn’t know what, couldn’t think about it now.
Why She Ran Page 24