Instead of getting the train, I planned to drop the car off at Dublin Airport. I wanted to take a detour along the River Liffey. I’d Googled Glastons Insurance, and put the postcode into my satnav, leaving plenty of time to visit and ask questions about Ronan Murphy – the second friend request.
Glastons Insurance was set back from the river, reminding me of a workhouse, although tastefully renovated. I pulled into the car park, screwing up my eyes and scanning the office workers milling about reception. Had Ronan Murphy once worked here? Did he still work here?
I got out of the car, and was buzzed into reception, a spacious area with a curved desk, by a woman in her fifties with black bobbed hair and turquoise glasses. As I moved closer, her cloying perfume gave me an instant headache. She smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
I hadn’t thought things through, and delayed responding. She raised a finely plucked brow.
‘The thing is,’ I said. ‘I’m doing a bit of research on a man I think may have worked here. Maybe still does.’
‘OK.’ She peered over her glasses. ‘So are you a journalist or something?’
‘No …’
‘Police?’
‘No … just researching my family history and trying to find a long-lost cousin.’ I was amazed how the lie tripped off my tongue.
‘I see.’
‘His name’s Ronan Murphy,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he must have worked here at some point.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Her phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’
While she took the call, I glanced at the abstract paintings, the low, bright yellow chairs, a water machine gurgling. A man in jeans and a sweatshirt – dress-down Friday, I imagined – raced across reception and out through the door, talking on his mobile.
‘Did I hear you right?’
I turned to see another man in his mid-sixties, his grey hair combed back from his face.
‘Sorry?’
‘You mentioned Ronan Murphy.’
‘Yes … do you know him?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but I remember the name. When I first started here they talked about him a lot. He was murdered here back in the late Nineties.’
‘Murdered?’ Oh my God!
‘Mmm, he always sticks out in my mind because he was so young, a lovely-looking lad if the pictures in the paper were anything to go by. Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m …’
‘I thought you said you were doing family research.’ The receptionist had ended her call.
I ignored her. ‘So who killed him?’ My eyes were back on the man.
‘God, now you’ve got me. It was almost twenty years ago.’ He looked about him. ‘As I said, it happened here, although it was a kids’ home at the time – nasty death, it was, but that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering if he could hear my heart thumping.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, heading on his way.
Back in the car, my mind whirred as I mulled over what the man said. If Ronan had been murdered, had the fire that killed David and Janet Green been deliberate too?
***
Later, I sat in departures browsing Facebook to try to soothe my tattered nerves. There was a photo on Lawrence’s timeline of Grace in Disneyland, dressed as Snow White, her cheeks aglow, eyes sparkling. I clicked on the love symbol. They would be heading home too, and I couldn’t wait to see her. I scrolled down his page, but apart from a few likes and comments by Farrah, there were no photos of them together. Perhaps I’d been wrong. Maybe she hadn’t gone with him after all.
Curious, I clicked on Farrah’s page. Her profile photo was of a cute labradoodle, and her cover photo was of boats bobbing on a river. There was nothing else to see. Her settings were private.
I moved on to Angela’s timeline. She hadn’t posted anything. But then she’d said she’d had difficulty setting up her profile, and was mainly using it to stalk her dates. I felt a pang of sadness, and a gnawing worry that Lawrence could have been right about her drinking.
Zoe’s recent updates were beauty links, and there was a status that I’d missed about our spa day, so I quickly liked and commented that it had been an amazing evening.
I was about to come off Facebook, when another friend request appeared. I clicked on it.
Henry Derby: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST
I dropped my phone into my lap, and covered my face with trembling hands. It was the fourth request I’d received, and there was no doubting this man – Henry Derby – was dead, just like David Green and Ronan Murphy.
I had to tell the police. Someone was targeting me, and as fear bubbled inside me, threatening to take my breath away, I wondered if whoever it was wanted me dead too.
With trembling hands, I picked up my phone, and clicked on Henry Derby’s Facebook page. The profile photo was of a man with his back to the camera, looking out at the ocean. The cover photo a modern terraced house.
As before there was one status update:
Half a pound of tuppenny rice
Half a pound of treacle
That’s the way the money goes
Pop! Goes the weasel
Chapter 36
February 2018
The life drains from Henry Derby’s body, and I ponder the fact I’m quite a good killer now. Feeling proud.
My earlier blundering attempts were quite different – especially Ronan. No wonder I got caught. Nobody can catch me now.
This is my fifth murder. Does that make me a serial killer? I straighten my back, and say the words out loud. Trying them on for size. Letting them hang in the air.
‘Serial killer.’
But am I a serial killer? Do I fit the mould? I’ve read up on it, you see. Serial killers normally have no apparent motive. I have a motive – always. They follow a characteristic. That’s not me – at least I don’t think it is. And I’m definitely not following a predictable pattern – am I? They rarely know their victims.
No. I’m in a category of my own – special.
Truth is, if they’d taken the time to connect the dots, they would have caught me by now. Fools.
I feel a surge of excitement run through me – I still have two more deaths to look forward to.
Not long now, and it will all be over.
Chapter 37
February 2018
I arrived home just after four, to see Angela crying on her doorstep – loud heart-wrenching sobs into her hands echoing down the street – as a man ran down her path and got into a car. He slammed the door, before screeching past me. I couldn’t see his face, but I noticed a blue disability badge in his front window.
I jumped from my car, and headed up Angela’s path. ‘Oh God, whatever’s wrong?’ I said, taking her into my arms. She buried her face in my shoulder, a sour smell of wine on her breath. ‘Was that the same man as before?’
She nodded. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Rachel.’ She pulled away from me, wiping the backs of her hands across her cheeks and sniffing.
‘Try me, please. I’m your friend. Whatever it is, I’d never judge you.’
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes puffy and bloodshot, before opening her mouth as though to speak. But she closed it again, remaining silent, leaving a brick wall between me and whatever she was going through. She rummaged in the pocket of her cardigan, pulled out a threadbare tissue, and sniffed into it.
‘I need to get on,’ she said, touching my arm gently and tilting her head. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, yes? You must tell me all about Ireland. I’ll look forward to it.’ She turned and went inside, and I glimpsed the rabbit slippers Grace had worn, before she closed the door behind her.
I lifted my arm to ring her bell, but retracted it, letting it fall to my side, defeated. I would go round in the morning, comfort her.
Once I’d lugged my holdall into my lounge and thrown it on the chair, I flopped onto the sofa and closed my eyes. I found flights tiring, even short ones.
My phone blasted, and my
eyes shot open. It was a withheld number.
‘Hello,’ I said, apprehensive.
‘Rachel?’ It was a woman.
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘It’s Margo, love, from Dream Meadows.’ I recognised her voice. ‘They’ve asked me to call you, as I had such a strong connection with your mother.’
‘Had? What do you mean, had?’
‘Love, your mum passed away this afternoon. It was her heart.’
I rose and paced the room, struggling to take in her words, to hold back tears. ‘What? No! That can’t be right. She was taking tablets for her heart.’
‘For some reason she’d been stashing them away in her drawer. Not taking them.’ My mind flashed to her saying she didn’t want to take her medication – that it was poison. ‘I know you’ve suffered a bogus call, Rachel, and I …’ Her voice broke off. She was crying. ‘I’m so sorry …’
‘But she was only fifty-one.’ I choked back tears.
I’d worried, after Mum’s heart attack ten years ago, that I could lose her that way, but the reality was intolerable. ‘This isn’t right. This can’t be true.’
‘Come to the home, dear,’ Margo said, her voice kind and warm.
‘Yes, yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘I’m so sorry, Rachel,’ she repeated. ‘I know it’s nowhere near enough, and you would think I would have a thousand words, but it’s such a shock.’
I ended the call, tears blurring my vision as I searched for my keys. I’d only had them a moment ago. I looked under the cushions, under the sofa, in the door. I was in shock, agitated, and the tears rolling down my face weren’t helping.
I lifted my holdall from the chair and threw it on the floor. There they were – but my eyes had already drifted.
‘Mr Snookum?’ I whispered, picking up my toy rabbit, staring into his bead eyes. He’d been in the loft, hadn’t he? How had he got down from there? In fact, with everything else, I’d never questioned how he’d got up there in the first place after I’d seen him with Mum. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. But then the only person with a key was Lawrence who’d been in Disneyland – although I still wasn’t sure if Angela had returned the spare set.
I put down the toy rabbit, and grabbed my keys. I would worry about Mr Snookum later.
I ran out into the cold afternoon, and jumped into my car, slapping my face to stop more tears flowing. I started the engine, pressing Lawrence’s number on my phone.
‘We’ve landed,’ he said, before I could speak. ‘We had a brilliant time.’
I sniffed back tears. ‘Lawrence, can you take Grace to your place for tonight? I’ll collect her in the morning.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Rach, she’s desperate to see you. Why?’
‘It’s my mum,’ I said in a whisper. If I said it out loud, it would be true.
‘What’s happened?’
‘She died, Lawrence. She went and bloody well died.’ I let out a cry, as I shoved the car into first gear, and released the handbrake. ‘I’m heading to Suffolk now.’
‘Oh, Rach I’m gutted for you.’ He sounded more sincere than he had for a long time. ‘Are you OK? You sound distraught.’
‘I’ll be fine, just look after Grace, please,’ I said. ‘Tell her I’ll see her soon.’
Chapter 38
February 2018
I turn up the music and close the door, watching Laura as she clutches her chest, and cries out. She looks at me pleadingly, as she stumbles towards the emergency cord. It’s easy to guide her away from it, let her fall to the ground in pain. Encouraging her to stop taking her heart tablets had helped me no end.
When I know she’s gone, her eyes like glass, I open the door and skip down the stairs, smiling at everyone I meet.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘She was alive when I left her, your honour,’ I practise saying under my breath, and laugh and laugh to myself.
Chapter 39
November 1990
A month had gone by, and it seemed Imogen’s miscarriage had brought the two women closer together. Or perhaps it was more that Laura wanted to keep an even closer watch over the children – over Imogen.
Today was a beautiful day, with clear blue skies, and a bright, watery sun. It wasn’t warm enough to swim in the lake, which would be freezing this time of year, but with thick cardigans, Laura had been determined to have a picnic by the water to cheer everyone up.
Laura and Imogen followed the excitable, high-pitched voices of the girls through the wood, as they headed for a clearing, Laura carrying a picnic basket. Dillon had declined the outing. ‘He’s sixteen,’ Imogen had said, when he glared at them and headed to his room. ‘Let him wallow in his teenage angst.’ She’d turned to Laura when he was out of sight. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ she’d said. ‘He’s so much like his father these days. In fact, I’ve suggested he join the army. It will make a man of him.’
Laura had noticed a change in Dillon since the day he’d confided his fears about Imogen. It was as though a deep sadness had crept in – along with a distrust of the woman he’d once spoken so highly of. ‘Does he want to join up?’ she’d asked, concerned. ‘He’s very young.’
‘It’s not what he wants, Laura. It’s what’s best for him. I’ve written him a permission letter. He’s to move out by the end of the year.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s family business, Laura,’ she’d concluded. And Laura took the subtext to mean ‘mind your own’.
There was something surreal about today – almost storybook-like. As though they were characters in an Enid Blyton tale. Maybe it was the tinkling sound of children’s laughter, the sun’s rays breaking through the trees, casting yellow brick roads in every direction. It felt like an adventure.
But the truth was, inside Laura’s book was the story of a useless mother, who still pined for Jude. A mother who’d wrecked her daughter’s early years. And what would be in Imogen’s novel? What kind of mother was she? Raped at seventeen, parents threw her onto the street, a woman who self-harmed? A killer? Truth was, beneath the covers of their books, maggots squirmed, burying themselves into the fleshy pages.
As they strolled, Laura asked, ‘Do you think Tierney will ever come back?’ She longed to tell her she’d seen them out in the boat that night, but if she had she would feel as though she was complicit. If she kept quiet she could pretend to herself that she hadn’t seen anything.
Imogen shrugged. ‘I can’t say I miss him. I never wanted him near me, Laura,’ she said. ‘Not even at the start.’
‘That’s not surprising,’ Laura said, ‘not after what you went through. Maybe you could see a counsellor.’
‘I don’t want some counsellor knowing my business,’ Imogen said, snatching a leaf from a twig. ‘Can we talk about something else?’ There was a painful pause, as she shredded the leaf, and discarded it. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t …’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Imogen cut in. ‘It’s fine. I just want to forget him.’
‘He was a cruel man.’
She nodded. ‘All men are cruel, Laura.’
Laura’s mind drifted to the men who’d featured in her own life: Jude and her father only thinking of themselves, Marcus with his inappropriate come-on. She looked at Imogen who was pushing ahead of her now through some brambles, and thought of the trail of destruction the woman had coped with. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she called after her. ‘You’ve had some dreadful experiences. But I still believe some men are different. That there are good ones out there somewhere.’
Imogen stopped and glanced over her shoulder. ‘I thought Tierney was one of the good guys,’ she said. ‘He was kind at first. But he was like all men, Laura.’ She kicked the undergrowth. ‘Evil to the core.’
‘Jump! Jump! Jump!’ Rachel was yelling in the near distance, h
er words cutting through the still air, like a guillotine.
‘What’s happening?’ Imogen cried, but Laura was pushing past her. Already running.
There was a splash, before Bridie yelled, ‘She can’t swim, you idiot. She’ll drown.’
Laura appeared in the clearing to see Bridie run at Rachel. At five, she was bigger and stronger than the three-and-half-year old, and with one push Rachel was in the lake.
Laura raced to the water’s edge to see Caitlin and Rachel thrashing their arms in the water, their eyes wide with fear. She kicked off her shoes.
‘Caitlin can’t swim,’ Bridie cried from behind her, as Caitlin stopped fighting the water. ‘She’s going to die.’ There was panic in Caitlin’s eyes, as she attempted to lift her chin. She was defeated. One gulp, and she disappeared under the water.
Laura had to make a judgement call.
She jumped into the icy water, the cold numbing her. ‘Rachel, keep paddling your legs and arms, like I taught you,’ she cried. ‘Try to get to the bank, darling. Can you do that for me?’
The child didn’t reply, her little arms splashing the water, droplets landing on Laura’s face. Laura took a deep breath and dived under to see Caitlin floating downwards. Without a second’s hesitation, she swam down fast and strong to grab her.
Moments later she broke through the water with Caitlin, who spluttered and coughed, her dark hair clinging to her skull. The child was pale, exhausted, her eyes bloodshot. Laura hugged her close as she waded towards the edge, and scanning the area for Rachel, she lifted Caitlin into Imogen’s waiting arms. ‘Where’s Rachel?’ she said, her eyes flicking over the bank for her daughter.
‘I couldn’t go in, Laura, I can’t swim,’ Imogen said in a rush. ‘And I couldn’t reach her. I’m so sorry.’
Laura turned. There was no sign of her daughter. ‘Rachel,’ she screamed, panicking as she spun round in the water. ‘Oh God, Rachel!’
She dived under once more, and opened her eyes, searching. She saw her child drifting downwards, arms splayed, her dress ballooned about her. For a split second the darkest thought oozed through her mind, like tar, thickening, swirling. Would life be easier if she let her float down to the bottom? She was clearly unconscious. She would feel no pain. She would be happy as an angel.
Tell the Truth Page 19
