Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (29 page)

O
n the outskirts
of Anaskeagh Greg’s mobile rang. The female voice on the other end of the line was elderly, quavering. He waved his hand towards Chas, ordering him to pull the car into the side of the road. At first he was unable to understand what the woman was saying. He would have ignored her, put it down to a crazed wrong call, except that the politician’s name ran like a refrain through her stumbling words. She gave him directions to a small estate of town houses.

A stained-glass lantern lit the front porch. She opened the door and beckoned him inside.

‘You – stay outside!’ She gestured towards Chas, who retreated from her fierce expression with a muttered oath.

Mutton dressed as lamb, Greg thought. She had a leathery tanned complexion, gold neck chains, knuckleduster rings on her wrinkled fingers. When she drew deeply on a cigarette he remembered her. That last time they’d met she’d been slumped in an armchair in Kieran Grant’s brownstone in the rarefied atmosphere of New York’s Upper East Side.

He followed her into a small room with a velvet three-piece suite and a cabinet where dusty Waterford glasses were on display. Marjory Tyrell did not ask him to sit down. From a drawer at the base of the cabinet she lifted out a thick folder of documents.

‘Land deals,’ she said. ‘My late sister-in-law May believed they could be useful one day. A silly woman who never understood the virtue of silence.’

Greg removed the documents from the folder and examined them. Albert Grant had trusted his wife in the days before his son had taken over his legal affairs.

‘You do realise the implications of handing this information to me,’ Greg warned her. ‘They’ll destroy your brother’s political reputation. They could lead to his imprisonment.’

‘Oh yes. I understand.’ She pressed her hands against the folder. Her nails turned white from the pressure as she forced the file towards him. ‘There will be a scandal. But the truth is important, don’t you agree, Mr Enright?’

‘You’ve had these documents in your possession for some time, Mrs Tyrell. Why have you decided to release them now?’

She stood up and waved her hand towards the door. ‘My reasons are my own business. You have the story you came to investigate, Mr Enright. There’s nothing more for you here. Now please leave my house. I seldom welcome visitors.’

E
lucidate
devoted
its entire programme to Albert Grant. Kickbacks, insider information; the familiar tale of power and corruption. The story gathered momentum on the later news broadcasts. A close-up of his constituency clinic flashed onscreen. Journalists hovered outside, microphones poised, the scent of blood in their nostrils. A closed door opened to reveal the stocky figure of his son, who read a prepared statement. Conor Grant spoke slowly, with sincerity. Since his father had entered politics he had served his constituents unstintingly. Phone calls of support and endorsement had been flooding into his clinic ever since that inaccurate and derogatory programme had aired. Albert Grant would be happy to address these allegations frankly but he was unavailable for comment until he had completed a thorough investigation of his files and diaries. These allegations dealt with issues from the past, an era when his father had worked tirelessly at a local level to stem the tide of emigration. How could a man of his advanced years be expected to remember every meeting he’d attended, every decision that had been made in council chambers? He had nothing to hide.

Journalists jostled forward, barking questions. Past land deals were the tip of the iceberg. What about the recent allegations? The industrial estate, for instance? The farmer who was cheated on a land deal? Conflicts of interest were everywhere. Conor fled before the hail of questions.

A
lbert Grant resigned
from the party and announced that he would run in the next election as an independent candidate. He was confident of being elected. His constituents were loyal and appreciative of the work he had done, and would continue to do, on their behalf. Yes, Greg thought, a few shady land deals – what of it? He would win the popular vote. He was, at heart, a parish-pump politician. It was always thus. And somehow, in the midst of the hype, Greg knew that the main story had slipped from his grasp.

M
arina McKeever drove
into Eva’s Cottage Garden and pulled to a halt on the gravelled parking area. Eva, locking up at the end of the day, suggested they go into the cottage for coffee. Whatever reason Marina had for visiting, it wouldn’t involve advice about flowers. Instead the older woman suggested a walk by the lake. She’d heard there were swans living in the reeds.

They sat on the garden bench and stared at the water. Marina’s voice droned aimlessly as she described a brief affair with a rock star that had turned her into tabloid fodder for a while. Her career as a model had been short-lived and excessive. The fashion industry had changed, just like Oldport. A changed village, friends married and even those who were widowed had nothing to offer. Nowadays, she worked on a cosmetics counter in a department store, warring against free radicals and wrinkles. Efficient in a white coat, she used the language of science to sell the vision of youth. Eva wondered how long it would take before she got to the point of her visit.

‘How is your mother?’ she asked, trying to fill the sudden silence that fell. ‘I met her recently in the village with Lindsey.’

‘She told me. You remind her of Sara Wallace.’

Eva was shocked by the blunt admission. ‘Do I look like her?’

‘Superficially, yes. I knew her briefly when she lived in London. We were never friends – too much history. Her father and Connie lived together after he left his wife.’ Her high energised voice faltered as she stared at the swans gliding by with the same lofty indifference she must once have displayed on the catwalk. ‘My father’s bones were hardly recovered from the sea before she took up with Barry Tyrell. I never forgave her. Even now I can’t.’

Eva was surprised to discover that the frail old woman had such a past. Swallows dived and skimmed over the water. The wind suddenly picked up. Marina pulled her jacket tighter around her. ‘You and Peter…’ Her perfect face tautened. ‘Spring and autumn lovers. Not always the wisest combination.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘What’s disapproval got to do with anything? You’re a big girl now.’ She told Eva about his London trips, how he occasionally spent nights in her apartment. ‘It didn’t set the sky alight for either of us. He was sleeping between cold sheets by then, seeking comfort.’

‘Weren’t they happy together?’

‘Happy? Who’s happy, for Christ’s sake?’

‘They were married a long time. Surely that had to mean something.’

‘What does it mean? You can be a long time on heroin but that doesn’t mean you love your addiction. Does he ever speak about her?’

‘Why should he? Their past has nothing to do with me.’

‘He’s not the right man for you, Eva.’

‘And he is for you?’

The look Marina gave her was neither bitter or jealous. ‘Not for me either. But for different reasons. He knows who I am. Does he know who you are?’

The question hung between them in the silent twilight, unanswered.

S
ara Wallace
, ghostly wife. Eva wanted to picture this woman who once knew Peter’s body as intimately as she did. Was she jealous of a dead woman? She shied from the thought. The dead did not inspire jealousy – unless they consumed the living – and sometimes, when he loved her, Eva wondered whom he saw lying beneath him. Was she his fantasy, his undying love?

H
e was visiting
Connie in hospital when she arrived at Havenstone. Apart from the anniversary of Faye’s birthday, Eva had never entered the house when he wasn’t there. She stood in the drawing room and looked down on the lights of Oldport. Had his wife stared at that same view before turning her back on it and slowly climbing the staircase to her bedroom? Did she know, as she closed the door behind her, that she would never open it again? Eva wanted to leave this house with its haunting past, yet she longed to know more about this mysterious woman. She climbed the stairs and hesitated outside Sara’s bedroom door. The feeling that she was moving through an invisible barrier was so strong she had to force herself to turn the key and enter. Such a weird eerie space, white walls decorated with mirrors. So sterile and narcissistic, so devoid of warmth. Her reflection was replicated, scared and tentative, as she approached the bed and rested her hand upon it.

Later she asked him to tell her about Sara, to give her a shape. She wanted to see a photograph. He shook his head, refusing to listen.

‘You must have something!’ Eva cried. ‘A lifetime together. Why did you hate her so much? Tell me about her.’

He groaned and pressed his lips across her mouth.

She forced him away. ‘Marina told me I look like her. Do I? Answer me?’

‘No! Don’t listen to her, to anyone. The past no longer exists. The love we have, that’s all that counts.’ He touched her fingertips. ‘Can’t you feel it?’ he demanded. ‘Electricity. We charge each other.’

She told him she’d trespassed in his dead wife’s room. Now she felt as if part of her had been left inside it. He rocked her in his arms, accusing her of crazy superstitions. She refused to be comforted.

‘I want to make love in her room.’ The words were out, a thought hardly realised. ‘Did you hear what I said, Peter? I want to love you in her room – on her bed. She’s haunting us – and I want to banish her.’

I
n her bedroom
of mirrors they lay together. Eva heard him moan when he came, grasping her hair, his hands tangled so deep in the tresses her eyes stung with pain. He laid her back against the high white pillows. She gave herself up to his mouth, his hands, the rhythm of his body.

Later he opened the wardrobe and removed a dress, a delicate fabric with the gleam of dark wine. It fitted her, a second skin moulding her body. In the dining room candles burned on the polished table. He laid food before her. White roses sat in a silver dish. The curtains were open. The lights of Oldport wavered below, diamonds spilling into the black night. He lifted her in his arms. He bruised her throat with kisses. She rejoiced in his touch, in his drowning pleasure.

What was happening to her? How could she tell this to Maria… To Liz… To Annie? Impossible. This was dark, secret passion. She was a whore, a virgin, a bride. Without shame. She would do anything for him. He would do the same for her. They were reflections of each other’s deepest desires. Reflections trapped in a white room. Their hearts beating time together, counting down the hours.

P
eter rang to
break the news of Connie McKeever’s death. He’d spent the night in the hospice with her family and they were returning to Havenstone, where they would stay until after the funeral. Remembering the speculative gaze of Marina McKeever, Eva had no desire to meet his relatives or to be the subject of their curiosity, and was relieved when he didn’t suggest seeing her during that time. The following day she drove to Woodstock with emergency flower supplies. Judith was busy with wreaths for the funeral. Connie McKeever was well respected in the village and beyond.

Annie Loughrey, Eva’s aunt, stood among the mourners at the graveside. She rang Eva that evening, demanding freshly percolated coffee before heading off to a gig in the city. She arrived shortly afterwards, giddy from too much wine and memories, old friends from Celtic Reign reunited around the graveside.

‘Of course I was just a tot in my Celtic Reign days, not an old crone like now,’ she said.

She was accompanied by the singer from Loughrey’s Crew, a young man with a shaved head, who protested vigorously over her use of the word ‘crone’ and was ordered off to look at the swans. Eva had stopped keeping track of her aunt’s companions, who got younger as Annie grew older.

‘Sexually, we’re both in our prime,’ Annie explained when Eva had once asked when she was going to stop behaving outrageously with schoolboys. A slight exaggeration. They’d usually received the key of the house when Annie invited them in.

Her good humour quickly disappeared as she surveyed her niece. ‘How are you enjoying life since you decided to become a hermit?’ she asked.

‘Busy, busy,’ Eva replied.

‘Don’t annoy me, Eva. I’m too long in the tooth to listen to balderdash.’ Annie had a fine snap to her voice when she was irritated. ‘You should never be too busy to visit your family. Liz said you look as skinny as a bag of bones and she’s right. There’s only one thing that makes a woman that way and it’s not happiness.’ Annie’s eyes narrowed. ‘So tell me. Is he also married?’

Eva shook her head. ‘Annie, nothing you say will make any difference. I’ve got someone who loves me, who cares. You’ve no idea how much he cares.’

‘And what about Greg? Have you thought about his feelings in all of this?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with him.’

Impatiently her aunt slapped her words aside. ‘Fine sentiments. I hope they don’t bite you back. Who is he?’

‘No one you know.’ Eva wondered if they’d rubbed shoulders at the funeral. Perhaps they’d spoken in the graveyard or in the Oldport Grand, where Annie had gathered old musicians around her to reminisce about times past and smoky ballad sessions in The Fiddler’s Nest.

L
oughrey’s Crew were playing
in Temple Bar. Annie saw Greg in the crowded pub and raised the bow of her fiddle in salute. He waited until the session ended and the musicians were packing up their equipment before approaching her.

‘How serious is it?’ He sat down on the stool next to her. ‘She usually confides in you.’

‘It’s difficult to communicate with her these days,’ Annie replied. ‘As far as Eva’s concerned, you betrayed her at the most vulnerable time in her life.’ She ran her fingers over the strings of her fiddle, as if checking its perfect pitch. ‘But I believe she still loves you, despite everything she says to the contrary.’

‘Loved, you mean. We operate in the past tense, Annie. If what I hear in her voice is love, than I guess I’ve been listening to the wrong songs.’

‘Eva’s in the grip of a fever, Greg. You screwed up once but if you want to save your marriage don’t do it a second time. Just be there when she falls – because that’s exactly what’s going to happen to her.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ he asked.

Annie smiled as she packed her fiddle in its case. ‘I know a thing or two about love. If you weren’t my niece’s husband I’d show you my bruises.’

H
e saw
Eva in the city one night. She passed by without noticing him and turned into a restaurant. He watched through the window as a man stood to greet her. Older yet still disturbingly handsome, he took her hand with the familiarity of a lover and guided her into the seat opposite him. This, then, was Peter Wallace. His name and face were familiar to Greg, though he was unable to remember where they could have met. The shock of having his suspicions confirmed sent blood rushing to his head. He had offered friendship to his wife in the vain hope that it could lead them back to love. But friendship, he realised, was impossible. Did he want to hang around and pick up the pieces? He’d become a journalist to find the beginning of a story, but the story kept fragmenting. There was no logic to anything, just random events that defined people for the rest of their lives, leaving them with the eternal, unanswerable thought – if only… If only…