Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (27 page)

G
ossip in the pubs
, in the shops and on the streets. Beth McKeever was right. They were coming out of the woodwork, rolling back the years. Slights and oversights, grievances, humiliations. Derry Mulhall had the bulbous nose of an alcoholic and a high, whining voice that stumbled over facts until they sounded like lies. Greg believed him when he claimed he’d been hoodwinked by Conor Grant, who’d claimed he was buying the land for a consortium of farmers. Anxious to make a quick sale, Derry had been beaten down easily on the price he’d demanded. Soon afterwards, the land had been rezoned from agricultural to industrial use and sold for a prime price to the ACII, who’d built the Anaskeagh industrial park. Derry had no doubt as to the true identity of the purchaser: Albert Grant, lining his pockets as usual, the wily old fox. He glowered, unable to hide a skulking admiration for underhand dealings. His story was explosive, but if Greg ever managed to get him in front of a television camera, the sympathy vote would be lost as soon as he opened his mouth.

Kitty Grimes shied away from his questions. She was a nervous, elderly woman who had never stepped out of line in her life. Her thin face flushed anxiously when she told him she was worried about her children. They had good jobs in Anaskeagh. If she spoke out of turn it could damage them. Greg assured her that no pressure would be put on her to go public with her story. He soothed and charmed and listened. Eventually she allowed him in.

The builder who had been promised work on the Clasheen site claimed he’d been forced to seek employment abroad since he’d complained aloud about the change of location. Like Derry, he’d discovered it was unwise to make such accusations out loud and now spent most of his time on building sites in Germany, separated from his family. He paused for breath and said, off the record, ‘I know for a fact that the consortium was a cover for Albert Grant and every contractor who got work on the Anaskeagh industrial park paid a percentage to him.’

‘Will any of them go on record and admit it?’ Greg asked.

‘They might.’ The builder smiled grimly. ‘But, then again, pigs might fly on a Sunday. If you want answers there’s only one person who can provide them. But I wouldn’t put money on your chances of getting an honest word out of his mouth.’

‘Albert Grant has a finger in every dubious pie in this town,’ said Hatty Beckett, a small, feisty redhead, who was prepared to speak publicly about the shopping mall. Greg believed her story, but she had no concrete evidence, only her unshakable conviction that Albert Grant was a rat.

Beth McKeever’s most notable feature was her eyes. Vengeful. A bold, green stare that demanded attention. She could control her emotions in a deadpan recital of facts, but those eyes could not disguise her hatred. Greg sensed another story behind the trail she laid before him. It would come to the surface eventually and, when the time was right, it would settle firmly within his grasp.

He walked through the centre of Anaskeagh and stopped outside the politician’s headquarters. Only one light shone from the upstairs window. The politician lived in a humble enough abode considering the amount of money he’d salted away over the years, probably offshore, coded, untraceable.

‘Good evening, Greg.’ He answered the door in person. ‘I hope you’ve been receiving a true Anaskeagh welcome.’

‘Thank you, Minister. I’ve no complaints so far.’

‘How long will we have the pleasure of your company in our little town?’

‘Until my story is fully investigated.’

‘An investigation!’ He raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘That sounds very serious. Are you suggesting we have secrets to hide in Anaskeagh?’

‘Secrets?’ Greg shrugged. ‘How can we tell if there are secrets? Unless, of course, people are prepared to reveal them. I hope you’ll do us the honour of being interviewed.’

‘My pleasure, Greg. When are you thinking?’

‘We’ll be filming in the Anaskeagh industrial park. I believe you were actively involved in locating it in Anaskeagh. I thought it would provide an interesting location for your interview.’

‘An excellent idea.’ The politician clasped Greg’s hand in farewell. ‘I’m delighted to be of assistance. But please remember I’ve a busy schedule and need advance warning before any interview can take place.’

T
he Anaskeagh
industrial park was a compact semicircle of white buildings that looked as if they’d been dropped into the green countryside from outer space. The meeting with the business people was held in Stewart McKeever’s office. They were enthusiastic and excited, anxious to milk the publicity their companies would receive from the television exposure. Greg felt embarrassed, as he often did on such occasions, knowing that most of the filming would be edited out by the time the programme appeared. But when the shit hit the fan, as he hoped it would, the Anaskeagh industrial park would receive more nationwide publicity than any of the group of people facing him could possibly realise. Beth McKeever didn’t attend the meeting. A busy woman, she had a factory to run.

M
arina McKeever arrived unexpectedly
at Havenstone one evening. From the drawing room Eva heard her high-pitched laughter and Peter’s surprised voice at the front door.

‘I’d no idea you’d company.’ She stopped abruptly when she entered, unable to hide her surprise. ‘Introduce me please.’ She held out a cool hand and tipped Eva’s fingers before archly turning back to Peter. The sinuous ease with which she moved was in marked contrast to her shrill voice. ‘Be a darling and pour me a gin and tonic. I’ve had a wretched day with my poor mother.’

‘How is Connie?’ he asked.

‘Not good at all, I’m afraid.’ Marina took off her jacket and sank gracefully into an armchair. ‘She puts on a show for everyone, but I’m the one who has to deal with the reality. Who’d have believed I’d end up emulating Florence Nightingale?’

‘I’ve told Connie I can hire a nurse―’

‘She’s stubborn,’ Marina interrupted him. ‘And having neglected her all my life, the least I can do is look after her when she’s so ill. But I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me in a small matter concerning my sanity. It’s about Lindsey. I haven’t room to breathe with her rubbish. And you know me – I need my space uncluttered. Why don’t you offer her a room here?’ She glanced at Eva and smiled. ‘That’s if you have the space. I wouldn’t dream of cramping your style.’

‘I’ve already asked her.’ Peter’s tone was curt. ‘I won’t repeat what she said. I’m sure you’re aware that my relationship with Lindsey is far from cordial.’

‘I can imagine. She’s such a histrionic little bitch. How Connie copes with her is beyond me. But in the present situation it’s impossible for her to stay with us. You’re the obvious choice, Peter.’ She tapped a long blue nail against her glass, watching him as he moved to the window, his face caught in a sudden spasm of grief.

‘Whatever else I may be, I’m far from Lindsey’s choice. I’ll ask her again, if you wish. But I already know her answer.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade her. You always had a way with words.’ Marina smiled languidly at Eva. ‘Oldport was a dump when I was growing up. A tomb – except for Peter, of course.’ Her voice lilted suggestively over past indiscretions. ‘He was the only asset, as far as the girls were concerned, weren’t you, darling?’ Her insistent voice forced him to turn around. ‘Then Sara came along and the rest, as they say, is history... Or does history begin to repeat itself?’ She held her empty glass towards him. ‘One more for the road and I’ll be on my way. I’ve intruded enough already.’

‘You haven’t intruded,’ Eva said. ‘I just called to discuss some unfinished work in the garden. I didn’t intend staying so late.’ Eva walked quickly towards the door, anxious to escape the woman’s aimless chatter. Marina McKeever would always be a woman who challenged other women, forcing them to either compete or retreat before her coy domination.

Eva had met Connie McKeever one evening on Main Strand Street. Frail and old, trembling on her granddaughter’s arm, the old woman had asked questions about the garden at Havenstone, remembering how it used to be – luscious vines and a spreading crab-apple orchard, white pear blossom in the spring and a plum tree that cast its summer fruit on the ground. When they were parting she’d called her ‘Sara’, lifting her hand to her mouth in apology when she’d realised her mistake.

B
it by bit
the layers peeled away. One night Peter spoke about Lindsey McKeever. Afterwards, Eva was surprised she hadn’t guessed. His broad forehead. His penetrating stare. On the rare occasions when Lindsey smiled, it was his smile Eva now saw. The same impulsive mouth and aggressive energy. He found it difficult to talk about Lindsey’s mother. Beth McKeever had left for England and he – unaware and engrossed in his new love – had never paused to wonder why. But what of Sara? Eva asked. Had she known? He shook his head. Not then but later, many years later, she’d realised the truth and it had consumed her. He hesitated, unwilling or unable to continue. Eva probed deeper, shocked to discover that Sara Wallace had trampled on her sister’s love and claimed it as her own. What kind of relationship had the two sisters had, Eva wondered, that one could wound the other so deeply?

Lindsey refused to acknowledge him. Peter had no rights. No rites of passage leading to fatherhood. We don’t own our children, Eva thought. We don’t own anyone but ourselves. She had never thought about her natural father. He remained an icon in a fairy story, a blond prince with a sturdy shield and bravery in his heart. She didn’t stare into the faces of strange men, hoping for a sudden revelation. Instead, she became a watcher of women.

B
rushed up and made over
, Derry Mulhall looked quite presentable as he displayed the documents he’d signed on conclusion of his land deal. Kitty Grimes was nervous but she told her story in front of the camera in simple words and showed the document she’d photocopied. The builder produced a letter he’d received from the ACII, promising him work on the Clasheen site, but Hatty Beckett sulked in the craft café because Greg had refused to interview her. He claimed her analysis on human rats was fascinating but lacked the clout of an incriminating document.

The Anaskeagh industrial park had been turned into a forest of cables and cameras. On the production floor of TrendLines, the excitement heightened among the machinists as a burly cameraman positioned his equipment. Computerised cutting machines sliced through layers of fabric. Sewing machines clattered as the women, self-conscious in fresh hairstyles and make-up, ran fabric through their fingers. Some, unable to resist, waved at the camera. Greg stood calmly amidst the clatter, waiting for Albert Grant to arrive.

The machines were silenced when the minister, accompanied by his entourage, breezed onto the floor. On first-name terms with the machine operators, he asked after the health of their children, making jokes – familiar local banter. He chatted knowledgeably to the
Elucidate
crew as he was wired for sound. Noise and action surrounded him until the interview began.

Once again he outlined his unstinting efforts to create rural employment – not just for his constituents but for small forgotten parishes throughout the rural community. His own furniture factory had provided much-needed local employment in days gone by, but he’d been forced to close it down when cheap imports had flooded the market. He deftly evaded a question about lack of planning permission. Such a trivial consideration when he was putting bread on the tables of his workers. But these were modern times, a new era. The Anaskeagh industrial park was a shining example of his commitment to his constituents.

‘Why was the location changed from Clasheen to Anaskeagh?’ Greg asked. ‘Surely Clasheen, with its superior road infrastructure, would have been much more suitable for an industrial estate?’

Albert Grant did not appear surprised at the sudden change of questioning. He smoothly offered statistics and solid reasons why Anaskeagh had been the better choice. ‘It was an ACII board decision. Unanimous.’ He stared steadfastly into the camera then turned and made a slight bow towards the staff. ‘I’m sure any of these lovely ladies will be happy to explain why Anaskeagh is the perfect location. This is a small town, Greg. Employment opportunities mean the difference between emigration or building a prosperous future in one’s own community.’

Beth McKeever stood in the background. Although Greg was unable to see her, he knew those arresting green eyes were boring into him as he asked the next question. ‘Minister, can you explain why Mr Derry Mulhall’s land was rezoned for industrial use so soon after it was purchased?’

‘The decision to rezone was unanimously passed at county council level.’ Once again, the minister appealed to the women, spreading his hands outwards, as if to indicate his bewilderment. ‘I wasn’t present when the decision was made so I’m afraid I can’t assist you any further. In my role as a public representative I’ve staked my reputation…’ He smiled into the camera. No telltale flush on his face. No flustered hand movements. An actor who never fluffed his lines. He shook his head gravely when Greg asked if he knew the identity of the consortium that had purchased the land from Derry Mulhall then sold it on to the ACII. His shoulders gave an involuntary jerk when one of the women muttered something, creating a low ripple of laughter among them.

Greg sensed something rising from them, a palpable wave of antipathy. Albert Grant knows he’s in trouble, he thought, unsure if it was exhilaration or terror making his heart race as he ended the interview. The minister strode from the factory without shaking his hand.

C
onor Grant’s
office was spacious, with wide-winged armchairs for his clients, fine art on the walls, and a large desk with a framed photograph of his wife and children. He had the same jovial smile as his father, the same firm handshake.

‘Could we please get to the point of this meeting, Mr Enright? I’ve an extremely busy afternoon ahead of me and fail to see how I can assist you in the making of this documentary.’

‘Four years ago you acted as solicitor for a consortium who purchased Derry Mulhall’s land.’ Greg sank deeply into a leather armchair and wondered how he would rise again with dignity. ‘Obviously we’re not suggesting any impropriety on their part but
Elucidate
needs confirmation of certain facts. I’ve compiled a list of questions and would appreciate you passing them on to your clients.’

The solicitor moved to the water cooler and poured a drink into a plastic container. He sipped thoughtfully. ‘You must be aware that all business conducted on behalf of my clients is strictly confidential. If
Elucidate
is inferring that incorrect procedures were carried out, I must warn you that such accusations will be answered with the full rigour of slander laws. Do we understand each other?’

‘Perfectly, Mr Grant. But as an investigative journalist I have a responsibility to explore any allegations connected to this story. Your father has gone on record and denied any connection with this consortium. Yet claims have been made that he was the sole purchaser of the land in question.’

The solicitor sat down behind his desk and surveyed Greg. ‘I know you have a reputation as a serious journalist, Mr Enright. My father holds you in high esteem. If you want to keep your reputation intact I suggest you leave my office immediately.’

Greg placed a sheet of paper on the desk. ‘I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow. If you wish to make a statement on behalf of your client – or clients –
Elucidate
will be happy to accommodate you.’

The solicitor tore the sheet of paper in two. He folded his hands over the torn sheet and smiled. ‘Allegations don’t bother my father, Mr Enright. He has enemies who’ll gladly try to damage his reputation if journalists are gullible enough to listen to them. If you will excuse me, sir’ – he stood up and opened the office door – ‘you’ve taken up enough of my time. Any further queries must be made through your company’s legal representative.’

T
he builder
from Clasheen was the first to ring Greg. He was taking a plane to Berlin where there was work waiting on a building site. He refused permission for his interview to be used on
Elucidate
. He gave no reasons and hung up on Greg’s questions.

Derry Mulhall sounded drunk when he came on the line – belligerent, threatening, and shouting above the noise of a barking dog. He’d been conned into saying those things. If the interview wasn’t pulled immediately he was going straight to his solicitor.

A gently apologetic Kitty Grimes rang soon afterwards. Her children were horrified that she’d allowed herself to be exploited by the media, who would use her and then desert her, leaving her to pick up the pieces.

His producer listened as Greg outlined his disintegrating story. ‘The man is as guilty as sin, and I can’t find a shred of evidence that’ll stand up against him.’ He clenched his jaw, frustrated yet not surprised. ‘I’m not giving up. I’m onto something, Sue. I want to see it through.’

‘You may not have the opportunity, Greg,’ she replied. ‘Conor Grant is threatening to apply for an injunction if you continue harassing his father.’

‘Harassing? Don’t make me laugh. That old fox doesn’t know the meaning of the word and I can prove—’

‘You’ve been ordered back to Dublin,’ Sue interrupted his protestations. ‘We’ve arranged a meeting with our legal team and we need you at it.’

‘
A
bandoning the sinking ship
?’ Beth McKeever rang as he was packing to leave.

‘I’m going back to Dublin for a meeting with my producer,’ he snapped. ‘There’s no reason to stay here unless you have more trustworthy sources at your disposal.’

‘You give up easily.’

‘
Easily
? Conor Grant has documentation that proves beyond doubt that his father wasn’t involved in the purchase of the farmer’s land. Information from the Office of the Revenue Commissioners also shows that everything in your uncle’s life is above board. His son is claiming that a systematic attempt by
Elucidate
to damage his father’s reputation is underway and we haven’t come up with a shred of evidence to refute this accusation – except from your friends, who are now falling over backwards to deny everything.’

‘Which of us do you believe?’

‘At this point it doesn’t matter. I’ve no reliable sources willing to go on record.’

‘What about the Anaskeagh Baby?’

‘The what?’

‘The baby who was found on Anaskeagh Head. I thought you would’ve researched the town’s history more thoroughly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do your research and ask the right questions.’

‘Ask who?’

‘You’re the journalist, Greg. Investigate!’ she said and ended the call.

‘Damn you, Beth McKeever.’ He stood for an instant with the phone to his ear, as if, in the silence she’d left behind, he expected to find answers to a story that had been hovering out of reach since the first time they’d met.

He switched on his laptop and Googled ‘Anaskeagh Baby’.

He’d been six when her story had hit the headlines. Albert Grant had made a public appeal to the mother to come forward and be comforted by her own people. His photograph was large, his expression concerned.