MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
THE JOCK-EYED CLUB was a greasy dive located in a cinder block building on the outskirts of the city. As its name hinted, the second favorite activity its patrons enjoyed was betting on the ponies. The first was getting lubed up enough to put stupid amounts of money on a win, place, or show. Regardless of the time of day, the interior was always dark, weakly lit by humming fluorescent tubes and the flickering closed-circuit screens live broadcasting races from the various tracks. Flat or jump races didn’t matter. Betting and winning did.
Despite its humble accoutrements, the Eye, as those in the know fondly called it, was the place to be if you wanted to surround yourself with people who really knew horses, the tracks, and the jockeys. The Eye was the last place any self-respecting woman would go without an escort, and it was the first place Dally went after leaving the Manchester Airport.
She stood at the doorway for a few minutes, letting her vision adjust to the dark. She knew better than to fidget with the thin cardigan sweater draped over her bony shoulders, so she drew herself up to her full height, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She fancied herself as an investigative journalist on the hunt for a story, but she really was a thirsty tabloid reporter on the prowl for a pint and a snog. She settled herself into a booth by the bar, her thighs squeaking on the sticky red vinyl, announcing to the world that her skirt was far too short. She looked at her watch and stole a quick glimpse at a picture of the man she was to meet. At least she didn’t have long to wait for a pint.
A misshapen face atop a body of gnarled muscles materialized out of the darkness and placed a glass of dark stout in front of her. “You Miss Thorpe?” he asked.
Dally did her best projection of confidence. “I am. Fr-Freddy?” she waited until he nodded and motioned for him to sit down with her. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“So, what’d you want?” He was blunt. No matter. She wasn’t expecting an earl with manners.
“I heard you r-rode in the p-private jump race at Aintree on the fifteenth.”
Freddy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Where’d you hear that?”
Dally waved her hand in the air as if to dismiss any thought of her having secret informants, but doing everything in her power to have him think just that. “I can’t d-divulge my s-sources, you know.” She gave him a theatric look of apology. “I won’t be quoting you or using your name, unless you agree.” She rounded her eyes and batted her thin lashes. “So we can talk.”
Freddy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth while he checked her out from head to toe, making her feel like a mare given one last look over before being sent to the glue factory. Still, she inhaled and pulled her shoulders back, giving her back a little arch. She started to sing her interview. “A few questions then?” He nodded and she decided to stick with a bastardized rendition of Do Re Me. “I heard about a jockey in the race. A famous American.”
“Feckin’ bitch,” he said with more bile than Dally expected. “Dirtiest rider there ever was. Every trick in the book. Said it was her first race, and I’ll make damned sure it’s her last.”
She barely raised an eyebrow. Freddy didn’t lose often. He had the reputation as being one of the most vengeful and conniving jockeys in England. Talking trash was part of his persona. The fact that he had lost a race to a woman undoubtedly meant months of undercutting jibes from other jockeys. She didn’t expect him to be gracious in defeat and sour grapes were to be expected. Frankly, she wanted the dirt.
“Why was she there to begin with?”
“I’ll be damned if I know,” he spat. “Seems too convenient, if you ask me. All the jockeys were lined up and committed to the race, and she comes in at the last minute. She insisted on all her own gear, feed, and staff. You name it.”
“What did she say when she arrived?”
“Nothing. She was too much of a bloody snot to even look at the other stable hands. She came in all high and mighty, like some goddamned princess. Me and the boys like to have some jollies while we work, you know? A new kid in the barns always gets a hazing. But not her. No sir. Couldn’t even have some fun. Her rich boyfriend placed a ring of thugs around her. Couldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole without one a’them men threatening to bust our kneecaps.”
Dally sat forward. “Are you saying Michael Connaught surrounded her with body guards?”
“Is that the bloke’s name? Sounds familiar. But, yeah. That guy must be insecure about his dick ‘cuz he made sure she was never out of sight of one of his men.” He took a loud slurp of stout and burped. “She had everyone thinking she was a fragile flower. We all thought she’d be turf fertilizer. She even threw her hurdle race to make everyone think she was a goner for the real thing, then she turned into a mighty barracuda. Jesus, that bitch can ride.” He shook his head in disbelief at the memory.
Dally fished around in the paper bag, produced the photographs of the cargo area of the airport, and shoved them over to him. Images of wooden crates emblazoned with MMC dotted the table. “You said she brought her own gear. Did you see the crates they came in?”
Freddy sat back. “Yeah. Those are hers.” He studied the picture. “Had guards standing over them twenty-four hours a day. Feckin’ paranoid lunatic, if you ask me.” He turned one of the pictures to the light. “These in customs?”
“Yes. She had gear flown in on a private jet from Ireland.”
This time when he looked at Dally, he barely concealed the wheels turning in his head. He leaned forward, working his tongue inside his lower lip. “Hmm. Seems to be more crates arriving in customs than I saw at the stables.” His thumb gently massaged his jaw as he thought. He lowered his voice as he spoke. “Did you say her boyfriend is a Connaught?”
Dally nodded, holding her breath.
“Funny how the race and the bombing were on the same day,” he said, pushing himself back into the booth with a satisfied grin. “And you can quote me.”
BALLYRONAN, NORTHERN IRELAND
MURRAY GREETED THEM at the door and the aroma of a fine meal hung in the air. Jessica hurried upstairs to quickly shower before dinner.
Michael immediately knew something was wrong. Murray had been by Michael’s side through the best and worst of his life’s events and was the only person Michael truly trusted. Ever discrete, Murray never betrayed a loyalty even when sorely pressed. Occasionally his official neutrality overlapped with the edges of his personal convictions, but he never compromised himself. More importantly, he never betrayed Michael. Murray was far more than a butler. He was an indispensable friend.
Murray handed Michael a newspaper folded to reveal a story with bold type declaring, Man Dies in Mountain Search. Murdering Heiress Sought for Questioning.
“Damn it!” Michael said and threw the paper back at Murray. “What the hell is that?”
Murray didn’t betray any emotion. “One of our men at the presses saw the story.”
“No. No. No. No.” The words sounded more like a moan than a request. “Who’s behind this?”
“We’re checking. The reporter, Dally Thorpe, is not an investigative journalist that we’ve seen working other stories. She lives and works in Manchester, England. Her father was killed when a bomb exploded at a hotel in Brighton where he worked as a bellhop.”
Michael bolted upright. “Did you say the Brighton Bombing?”
“Yes. Your brother planned that attack.”
Michael wondered if the connection was more than a coincidence. Members of the government’s Conservative party, namely Prime Minister Thatcher and her husband, were attending a conference at the Brighton Hotel. They narrowly escaped, but five members of their party perished along with a handful of hotel employees. The bombing gave Thatcher the nickname “Iron Lady” for her unrattled demeanor immediately afterward. The IRA claimed responsibility, and Michael’s brother had almost earned enough power and respect to take over the Charity then and there. Young Liam’s failure to kill the prime minister drove him
to take bigger chances. He had just finished plans for another campaign when he was killed handling inferior and unstable explosives. Michael absorbed the information and played it against what he already knew, moving his shoulders in an unconscious way as if to see how much room he had to navigate.
“Arndale,” he said, bringing their attention back to the present. “Any word on how the investigation on the bombing is going?”
“Your uncle’s sources say the investigation is at a standstill.”
“The truck?”
Murray provided an update. “Pieces of the truck have been analyzed for identification numbers, fingerprints, explosive residue, anything you can think of. The government is enraged at its inability to trace the evidence back to the bombers. They found no leads to the identity of the men or the source of the materials. Once again, the trail runs cold through a Medusa’s head of holding companies.”
Michael knew the game. Lack of eyewitnesses, reluctant or unreliable sources, and the usual dead ends contributed to the stall. What solid evidence would authorities have? The streets’ surveillance cameras... stores’ security... the phone calls to the police and news stations...
“How about the phone calls?”
“They traced one call to a flat, and we’re waiting for word on that piece of the investigation. Every lead they’ve followed so far has turned up nothing, and they are expressing frustration privately, feeling that another investigative defeat is close at hand. All that shouldn’t bother you, should it?”
Michael was unsure how much of his recently acquired knowledge of his father’s books he should share. “It should and it does.”
Murray picked up a cloth and began to wipe off the counters. “It’s good to be concerned about the details.”
Michael’s jaw muscles pulsed as he thought. “What about this reporter?”
“She’s a tabloid journalist, who nearly lost her job for an incident referred to as the Magpie Caper. She wrote a series of articles claiming certain members of Parliament and the Royal Family were involved in homosexual trysts and were selling political favors. Her ‘off the record’ source failed to materialize so the claims were never substantiated. She stood by her story until her editors recanted on her behalf. It was either that or be buried under a settlement so huge they would have gone under. She’s been trying to rebuild her reputation ever since.”
“No real news so take the next best target. A simple update on Jessica would sell a few thousand papers, but creating another level of intrigue would send circulation over the edge.” Murray cleared his throat, prompting Michael to continue, “And giving an update on the Connaught legacy is too good to resist.”
Murray waited patiently.
“She’s coming after me.”
“It certainly appears that way.”
Michael paced as he considered his options. “We have a hungry tabloid reporter with a reputation for lying. That doesn’t bother me as much as the increased exposure around my name might fuel closer examination of some of the money trails. My uncle’s sources are very good, so if they say the investigation is at a standstill, it is. But he knows my concern that one lucky guess is all it would take to lead back to us.”
“So, the story?”
“I don’t want Jessica dragged through this. We need a pre-emptive strike to stop them from producing any further stories.”
“Unfortunately, she’s the bait the readers will latch onto. I’m sure you’re aware you can consider having an injunction order drafted against the newspaper and reporter to stop more articles. It’s very standard business practice here.”
Michael nodded. “How quickly could we get that in place? Would it be enough to stop additional stories?”
“Newspapers are cautious about what they print if they fear the plaintiff has the means to come after them, like the Connaughts. In the States, you are well organized with good connections. That’s why you’ve been successful in suppressing stories about the search.”
“Yes. Electra helped with that.”
“It’s different under U.K. laws. To get protection here, the statements are considered false and have to be proven as true—or at least proven that they were written with enough fact to support the slant of the story. If the story is considered false to begin with, and if a fuss isn’t made, then it will all fade into the distance, right?” Michael nodded, seeing the strategy. “This first story is true, although very heavy on innuendo. The reporter’s sources are mostly other newspapers, so she’d be able to verify facts quickly enough to prove her stories weren’t capricious and had enough truth to support them. I wouldn’t wage war on this one article. Doing so would raise unnecessary flags and may even become fodder for another line of stories. Certainly more are coming, but it’s interesting Miss Thorpe started tying Miss Jessica to you with a focus on the search. Is there anything else on that search I should know?”
“I killed a man to save her life and covered it up.”
“I know that. What else?”
“The search was a setup by my father. He knew I would risk my position as sheriff to keep the connection to the Charity secret. Magnus set up a test of loyalty for me to kill Jessica or the man who held her hostage. Either way, he knew the resulting cover up would force me to leave the U.S. and come back here until the story faded and died. Time is all Magnus needed to draw me in.”
“Time?”
“I can’t help but suspect Magnus’ hand is in all of this. None of this is a coincidence. His death set off a series of pre-organized and orchestrated events. He knew, inevitably, I would come back to Ballyronan. The bombing and all of the transactions that led up to it will point to me if I don’t step in and start directing people’s actions myself. It’s either step directly into his shoes or go to prison.”
Too many years of watching how Magnus conducted his affairs stopped any need for Murray to question that what Michael said was the truth. “These articles are clearly involving Jessica in this.”
Michael raked his hand through his hair. Lines of concern and fear creased his face. “It’s not a coincidence that the timing of the bombing happened when it’s easily proved she was in England, less than an hour’s drive from there. I have to figure out if anything more is planned and stop it before it happens. Even from his grave he’s manipulating me.”
“There are no facts to find against her.”
“I can’t be sure of that.” His head fell forward as if the weight of it suddenly became too much, and he sunk onto a stool. “She’s fed up with this, Murray. She hates the Charity and everything it’s involved in. If I don’t fix this, I’m afraid she... that I’ll...” his voice trailed, but his desperation was clear.
Murray listened for a moment to the sounds of the shower running upstairs and closed the swinging door to the kitchen behind them. Piles of Bridget’s letters and journals littered the long wooden table. He waved his hand over the papers. “She has bigger problems.”
DECEMBER 1966
SISTERS OF THE HOLY CROSS CONVENT
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND
THE CONVENT OF the Sisters of the Holy Cross sat on a rocky bluff overlooking the North Channel of the Irish Sea. The location was perfect because all who stayed there experienced the misery and the mystery of God. The expanse of the North Sea would glitter like a thousand stars on rare perfect days then plunge into bone chattering cold, testing the resolve of even the most dedicated souls. According to legend, those who worshiped there better understood God’s mercies. If they held the glory of His creation close to their hearts, they could sustain themselves by bearing witness when their faith waivered. For those who did not hold such knowledge, the desolate and rocky outcrop became a forsaken place scoured by an unceasing wind. The huge brick structure with its peaks topped by white crosses and small windows did little to inspire any souls who visited and even less to pique the curiosity of those who didn’t. The nuisance of a visitor rarely interrupted daily vespers.
The sisters who con
sidered the convent their home acknowledged they had a special calling and were loathe to share themselves with the outside world. Their vows included one of silence whenever they ventured outside of the convent’s walls and even the privilege of speech among them was earned with painstaking ritual, which few sisters ever mastered. That peculiar aspect of their lives made them particularly useful.
Their loyalty was legendary, perhaps in part because few could speak, reducing the likelihood that any ill words could be spoken at all. Their needs were few and the resilient women were self-sustaining, but their allegiance would be forever tied to anyone who provided them support. The relationship worked for all involved. Benefactors, needing loyalty and discretion, were generous. The sisters, dependent on their gifts, grew even more discrete. Reverend Mother Cliona Flanagan knew better than to shun her patrons and was even less inclined to judge them.
She looked at her visitor with a face pinched as much by suppressed emotion as by the starched white wimple that surrounded it. The narrow bands of fabric framed her cheeks and rose up to an imposing fez-like crown of white, giving the short woman another five inches of desperately needed height. In a minor wonder of tradition and engineering, the heavy black gabardine fabric that cascaded from her head was somehow held away from her, framing a body stooped with age and prayer. The rest of her habit enveloped her in layers needed for comfort in the cold halls. A rosewood rosary draped at her waist. Her visitor dressed in black as well, but any similarities ended there.
Before she answered her calling, the priest who stood in front of her would have caused tremendous consternation. His height and strong features made him devilishly handsome, a phrase she used to connote the turmoil such a presence sparked within her withered womanly soul. It hinted at what could only live within the heart of someone so perfect. For God does not give but what He then takes away, and what gift He bestowed on the outside balanced with what He took away from within. She could barely imagine the struggles the man had endured to prove worthiness for his perfection before God’s eyes. She would not add to his burden and gratefully accepted his tithe and food with a head bowed with humility and grace.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 33
