Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (23 page)

‘Please don’t.’ He flicked his note book closed. ‘
Elucidate
is inundated with stories and each one is carefully vetted before we make a decision. What I’ve got from you so far is mostly anecdotal. It’s not enough, Mrs McKeever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a long drive back to Dublin.’

‘Will you talk to those people?’

‘I’ll see them before I leave and see if it’s worth pursuing. I’ll let you know when I’ve made my decision.’

A
week
later Justin Boyd finally returned her calls. Derry Mulhall had been belligerent and drunk. A wild dog had shredded the leg of his trousers and the farmer had refused to call it to heel. Hatty Beckett had ordered four rum and cokes on his tab and told him a concocted story about two-legged rats with vendettas. Kitty Grimes had been incoherent with nerves and refused to show him her so-called evidence. The journalist’s voice shook with anger. The file on Albert Grant was whiter than white. There was no story.

‘The only problem I have with your uncle is that he’s a puffed-up ball of self-importance,’ he said. ‘But if that was a crime they could move Dáil Éireann to Mountjoy Prison.’

‘What about the Michael Hannon story?’ Beth asked. ‘How did that start? I can hardly imagine that information was presented to you in its entirety.’

‘The Michael Hannon exposé had nothing to do with me,’ Justin Boyd replied. ‘And the journalist responsible is now living in New York. Believe me, Mrs McKeever, there’s nothing to investigate.’

N
ew York was
like a fist opening. Its noise overpowered Greg. He welcomed the obscene heights of buildings, the anonymous crowds, the ceaseless roar of traffic. His tears or his laughter would fall unnoticed amongst the clamorous mass of creeds, cultures and colours jostling past him. How could anything he had done have significance in such surroundings? A fist had opened, and he was free. But freedom came with a price tag. Loneliness that, at times, felt unbearable. He could have alleviated it. On
Stateside Review
there were beautiful women with anorexic shoulders and smiles that promised much. He resisted them, filled with a need to atone. Once a Catholic always a Catholic – punishment awaited those who sinned in the flesh. And when the punishment came it was a splinter, festering.

Ellen Lloyd, a Limerick woman who worked as
Stateside Review
’s chief advertising executive and had a soft spot for homesick emigrants, befriended him. Twenty years in New York had robbed Ellen of the insatiable Irish lust for personal information. She asked no questions about his past. He didn’t mention Eva, and when he breathed Faye’s name it was at night when he was alone and aching with regret.

Ellen called him into her office when he was passing by one morning. ‘Watch out for leprechauns,’ she said. ‘There’s an Irish trade delegation in New York, headed by Albert Grant. He’s a new minister for something or other.’

Greg nodded. He kept up to date with news from home and the appointment of the politician had surprised him. Albert Grant was a chameleon who blended into any environment, comfortable with his parochial roots, yet projecting an urbane image that embraced the problems of the nation. In the past, Greg had tried to penetrate the avuncular mask he wore and failed. Rumours occasionally surfaced about him. Questions about land deals had been asked but there had never been any evidence to carry a story.

The minister rose to his feet when Greg entered
Stateside Review
’s hospitality room and grasped his hand.

‘Welcome to New York, Minister,’ said Greg. ‘Congratulations on your appointment.’

‘My dear boy. What a pleasure it is to see a familiar face. I can relax now that I’m in the hands of a true professional.’

Kieran Grant, a small, colourless man with a startling dicky bow, had accompanied him. His handshake was lacklustre, as if the ebullience of his father had drained him of any desire to compete.

The politician was relaxed in front of the camera. He spoke movingly about the curse of emigration and how Mother America had taken the Irish diaspora into her welcoming arms. But a new day was dawning. He had a vision that would stem the haemorrhage of young blood from his native land. In forgotten corners of Ireland he was involved in establishing creative centres of opportunity and employment. Greg admired his ability to flog the same hobby horse and make it sound different each time.

‘I must say that went extremely well.’ At the end of the interview Albert rubbed his hands together.

‘As always, Minister.’ Greg unclipped their microphones and escorted him back to the hospitality room where his son was waiting.

‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Greg,’ Kieran said as they were leaving. ‘I hope you’ll come to dinner soon. I’ll be in touch shortly to arrange it.’

Greg was unaware that clips from the interview had been shown on the evening news on Irish TV. Shortly afterwards, he received a call from a viewer in connection with his interview. Beth McKeever claimed to have incriminating evidence about the minister. Was his move to New York permanent? she asked.

‘I’m here for the foreseeable future,’ he said. ‘So I’m afraid I can’t be of any assistance.’

Albert Grant and his misdeeds were no longer his concern, yet he was unable to forget her call. Out of curiosity he phoned the
Elucidate
office. Justin Boyd insisted that the story had no legs. Beth McKeever had a grudge against the politician because an ACII grant due to her husband had been delayed. She obviously expected preferential treatment because Albert Grant was her uncle and unable to pull a stroke on her behalf.

Bad blood, Greg thought, the worst kind. The thrill of the chase ― but he had to let this one go.

In his high-rise apartment he watched the lights of New York scar the skyline. Between the towering skyscrapers he could breathe again. The radio played classic hits. Freddie Mercury singing about champions with no time for losing. You lost out on that one, Freddie, he thought. But what a voice to leave behind. Such power. That was what it was all about. To leave something fine behind – music, words, a painting, a child… Something to mark the fact that he had lingered for a short while on the cusp of time.

B
y the magic
of moonlight Eva’s cottage looked beautiful, but she woke every morning in her caravan to a heap of stones, protected by tarpaulin covers. The site had become a blight on her horizon. She wondered if she was mad, chasing a dream amidst the clamour and humped earth with only Matt Morgan and his crew of head-wreckers, who called themselves brick layers, carpenters, plumbers and plasterers. Tractors and diggers added to the din. Even the swans were hiding in the rushes, furious over the drilling and hammering. If only this hullabaloo made a difference. It should be possible to bury her thoughts in the thump of a kango hammer or the crash of falling masonry, but sometimes there were phantom yearnings when she imagined the cry of a baby and her breasts tingled, as if milk was still flowing. The summer nights were mild. A full moon shone on the lake. The reeds stood tall and straight. The swans were sleeping, indifferent to her problems.

Her father arrived one afternoon and bullied her into coming back to Ashton for a week. Liz fussed and complained that she was too thin, malnourished and obsessed with murdering Matt Morgan. Eva obediently swallowed multivitamins and ate three solid meals a day, fretting and contacting Matt continuously on her mobile.

The early-morning routine in Wind Fall hadn’t changed. Guests rising for breakfast, the slamming of car doors as they departed. Eva seldom entered the breakfast room, preferring the intimacy of the kitchen, where she helped Liz prepare a full Irish breakfast and slice freshly baked brown bread.

One morning, on her way to the river, she passed the wide window of the breakfast room. It was empty except for one guest who was speaking to her mother. The slope of Liz’s shoulders and the man’s serious expression as he turned to gaze at a christening photograph on the wall alerted her. They were talking about Faye. For an instant, Eva felt exposed, gossip fodder for a stranger. Her apprehension quickly died away. Liz was not a gossip. Her relationship with her guests was friendly but confined to light conversation about the weather and places of interest they should visit.

She saw him again by the river. At first she thought he was an angler and, having registered his presence, forgot about him. She was startled some time later when he spoke, apologising for disturbing her. He was staying at Wind Fall and wondered if she was Mrs Frawley’s daughter?

Eva nodded, angry at having to make conversation, then angrier still when he sat on the grass beside her. He laid a sketchpad between them. A briar had torn the pocket of his jacket and rust-coloured threads hung loose from it.

‘This is such a peaceful place.’ He gazed towards the river. ‘It must have looked exactly the same a hundred years ago.’

His voice had a hesitancy that irritated her, as if he was judging each word before he uttered it. Yet it was a strong voice, too loud in her head, too intrusive. He wondered if it was possible to paint such stillness. She glanced at his sketchpad. Scribbles, slashes. She didn’t want him drawing her river. She didn’t want him sitting beside her, disturbing her solitude. His beard gave him a wild look, as if he should be climbing mountains or hacking forgotten trails in some far-off outback. When she asked him to leave her alone he rose to his feet immediately. He was composed as he gathered his pad and pencils.

‘Mrs Frawley told me about your child,’ he said, his voice dropping low. ‘I wish I could find words to comfort you.’

She flinched from his well-meaning sympathy and made no reply.

He acknowledged her desire to be left alone and said goodbye. His car was missing from the driveway when she returned to Wind Fall.

E
va had
her first garden-design contract if she wanted to accept it. It could be a lucrative contract, Judith Hansen said when she rang. The florist had purchased the building next door to Woodstock and was expanding into organic fruit and vegetables. Tork was setting up a market garden to supply most of the produce.

‘He’s gone into partnership with a local man, who’s renting land to him and helping him financially,’ Judith said. ‘But the land needs to be cultivated and landscaped. The owner wants to meet you. Are you interested?’

‘Yes, I’m interested,’ Eva replied. It sounded like a lucrative contract and she desperately needed money. A bad drainage problem and subsidence in her cottage foundations had taken their toll on her grandmother’s legacy. Her bank manager displayed little sympathy when Eva mentioned cash-flow problems. The future was uncertain. In truth, when she had the courage to think about it, her future was a mess.

With advance warning, Eva had time to tidy the caravan and tie up her hair before her potential client arrived. She changed her jeans and took off her wellingtons. She applied perfume and eyeliner. Word of mouth was the best advertisement and first impressions were important.

She recognised him immediately. His beard still needed trimming. He had a firm, dry handshake and held her hand for a moment longer than she thought was necessary. The same jacket, crumpled rust-coloured linen with a torn pocket. Judith said he was a widower, awkward without a woman to sew him into shape. Eva wondered what he had been doing in Ashton. Painting, probably.

Aware that she’d recognised him, he apologised for intruding on her privacy when she’d sat alone by the river. He understood grief. He knew what it could do. The personal nature of his conversation surprised her. Business deals weren’t usually done in an atmosphere of yearning memories. Nor were they done in the middle of a bomb site.

She invited him into the caravan, thankful she’d taken the precaution of tidying it. She was startled how at home he looked relaxing against the cushions and discussing money in the matter-of-fact manner of an experienced businessman.

‘When will it be convenient to visit Havenstone?’ he asked.

‘Havenstone?’ She glanced enquiringly at him.

‘My house. I want you to see the grounds first. Then we can discuss the possibilities.’

She was suddenly nervous at the thought of her first major contract without her father’s knowledgeable hand on her elbow. He saw her hesitation and misunderstood it, offering immediately to pay for the consultation.

‘It’s not that. I haven’t worked since before…’ She paused, unable to continue.

He spoke gently for her. ‘Since Faye died.’

The name of her child on this stranger’s lips seemed natural. She took a deep breath and nodded rigidly. Only afterwards did she wonder about the emotion in his voice.

‘Monday,’ he said. ‘Come and see me on Monday.’

Judith rang the following day. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I have to see the grounds first.’

‘You don’t sound too sure. Did you have a problem with him? He can be rather aloof, but he’s fine when you get to know him. He’s been through a hard time since his wife died.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Last year – a sad affair.’

‘She must have been quite young?’

‘Too young to die,’ Judith agreed. ‘Afterwards, he was going to sell his house but he changed his mind and now Tork has persuaded him to lease his land.’

The decision to withdraw his house came without warning, Judith added. Carrie Davern was furious. She had potential bidders lined up and was counting on her commission. Tough. Eva disliked the estate agent with her cold, speculative eyes and the ability to sell a nightmare under the guise of a dream.

Peter Wallace had intrigued her. Before he’d left her caravan he’d glanced out the window and asked how she was managing to stay sane with the wrecking crew in action. He knew Matt Morgan by reputation.

‘A temperamental man,’ he’d said. ‘Have you noticed?’

Eva nodded. The floodgates had opened. She’d found herself telling this stranger about the rows and the delays and the hearing problems Matt suffered if she pointed out a flaw in his work. How she was afraid to bully him in case he downed tools and headed off to another job.

He’d asked to see the architectural plans. After studying them intently he’d gone outside to look around. He’d talked to Matt, pointing to the walls and the bricks stacked on one side of the cottage. He’d tapped the plans, forcing the builder to look closely at them. His manner had been high-handed, a born autocrat. She’d waited for Matt to stride off the site in a temper tantrum but, before she could intervene, he’d nodded sheepishly. She’d almost expected him to touch his forelock. Peter Wallace had returned to the caravan, ducking his head as he entered. He’d offered his opinion: Matt had experienced some problems but he would soon have everything sorted out. She need have no further worries.

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after my own business affairs,’ she’d said, angry that she had inadvertently revealed so much to a stranger.

‘I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.’ He’d stared evenly back at her. ‘But the bricks Matt intended using looked different to the ones specified on the plans. An understandable mistake and easily rectified.’

The thought of someone looking out for her interests had made her legs tremble. She’d sat down, suddenly realising she was exhausted. After he’d driven away she’d marched over to Matt.

‘If you ever try to pull one over on me again you’ll be off this job so fast you’ll think there’s a rocket up your arse,’ she’d shouted.

‘Mother of God!’ Matt had been shocked. ‘That’s no way for a lady to talk. Your mother should wash your mouth out with soap.’

‘I’m not joking, Matt. Don’t you dare cut corners with inferior materials when you’re working for me. I want the exact materials that are in the architect’s plans. Understand? And I want this job finished on time. If you skive off and do any more nixers you can sing falsetto for your money.’

He’d turned nasty, gesturing towards the mud heaps. ‘If you insist on using threats instead of acting in a civilised manner we might as well call a halt to things right now. But I’ll drag you through the courts for every penny you owe me.’

‘What about the Revenue Commissioners?’ she’d demanded, enjoying his startled expression. ‘How much do you owe them?’

‘Don’t bluff with me, lady.’ He’d been rising on his toes, ready to walk. ‘Everything I do is straight up.’

‘I’m not a lady, Mr Morgan. On more than one occasion I’ve been called a thundering bitch – and everything you do is not straight up. I have the evidence to prove it. I followed you last week and two days the week before when you were supposed to be working here. Mobile phones are so handy these days. Those little videos I made should make interesting viewing. But that’s between you and your friendly tax inspector. As long as you understand that you’re working to a contracted time frame and doing the job to the exact specifications in my plans, we should be able to get out of each other’s hair as soon as possible.’

‘It was never going to be otherwise, lady.’ He’d sounded grimly resigned. ‘If you’ll allow me to resume my work, I have a contract to honour.’

Back in the caravan Eva hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. He’d bought her bluff. For the first time since Faye’s death she’d felt elated, without guilt, without kitten claws tearing her chest apart.

I
n the garden of Havenstone
, the roots of old trees splayed like magnificent tendons across the grass. Roses climbed the walls, an abundance of white blossom forming an arch above the entrance to the house.

‘Why do you want to change such a beautiful garden?’ Eva asked. She was uneasy in this peaceful space, strangely reluctant to see it torn apart by diggers and landscaped to a new plan. Bees droned and hovered over lush borders of summer flowers; spires of colour spilling their delicate fragrance into the air.

‘That was never my intention,’ Peter Wallace replied. ‘The project I have in mind is at the back of the house.’ She followed him around the side entrance into a terraced garden. White camellias blossomed in terracotta pots but the garden furniture looked neglected. Steps led down to a second level where an ornate fountain had become a repository for bird droppings and dead leaves. They reached a copse of slender trees that eventually led into a claustrophobic wilderness of briars, hawthorn and a shrivelled crab-apple orchard. Rusting remains of metal frames and an old wall were almost obscured by thick layers of ivy.

An evening mist was falling. Midges swarmed around them, swirling on the smell of dead vegetation. When Eva slipped on rotting leaves he reached out to steady her, his gaze inscrutable in the flickering shadows.

‘My father used to grow vines here,’ he said. ‘Some notion he had about making his own wine. This is the area Tork Hansen wants to cultivate.’

They returned to a house filled with antique furniture sitting in dusty, airless rooms. The walls were bare. Lighter patches showed where paintings or photographs once hung. Eva wanted to fling open windows, fill the rooms with flowers, drown the fusty atmosphere with loud music. Marching bands might do the trick.

She promised to draw up plans, do her costings. Heavy machinery would be involved in the early stages and she would need to check access. For the first time since entering Havenstone, she felt motivated. In her mind she saw how it would look. Greenhouses and a walled kitchen garden. Trees heavy with fruit, vegetables all in a row, tubs of marjoram, rosemary, sage, dill, a bay tree, vines clinging and climbing.

When he wasn’t attending horticultural college, Tork Hansen worked by her side. The florist’s son was a melancholic youth, a busker who performed a dramatic flame-swallowing routine in his spare time. Occasionally, his girlfriend arrived with sandwiches and flasks of the vilest, strongest coffee Eva had ever tasted. Her fine dark eyebrows were decorated with precisely carved studs that reminded Eva of bullets. A ring glistened on her tongue when she opened her mouth and her clothes ― an oversized military jacket, khaki trousers and aggressive combat boots – looked as if they’d been scavenged from the body of a dead soldier. She never stayed for long. If Peter appeared she took off with speed, as if her appearance in the garden would anger him. She offered to design a publicity leaflet for Eva’s garden centre and brought samples of her work to the caravan one night. She suggested the name Eva’s Cottage Garden. It sounded exactly right.