Can Anybody Help Me?

by Sinéad Crowley

  The keening got louder, and Bill shot her a fierce look.

  ‘He did, Mam, you know he did. There’s no point in denying it, sure it’ll all come out in court. Thing is …’

  Bill looked directly at Yvonne for the first time.

  ‘It was always my job to keep an eye on her, you know? To keep an eye on things. Put it this way, there’s a reason I’m thirty-five and still living with my mother.’

  He attempted a smile.

  It wasn’t returned.

  ‘Anyway. When he went to England, we thought he’d copped himself on, you know? Pulled himself together. And then when he rang home and said he was getting married, and that there was a baby on the way …’

  He looked at Róisín, reached out as if to touch her and then pulled his arm back sharply.

  ‘We were hoping all the other stuff was behind him. But … maybe we shouldn’t have trusted him.’

  ‘No.’

  Yvonne’s voice was flat, emotionless. But a number of things were becoming clear.

  ‘You were both keeping an eye on me. That was why you called over so often. You wanted to make sure we were okay. Me and Róisín. You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  The word was a soft sigh.

  ‘Not this. Not this. We wanted to keep an eye, alright, but – no. I never thought it would go this far. Yvonne, you have to believe me. All I can say is how sorry we are.’

  ‘Well. Whatever.’

  Yvonne bent down and kissed Róisín on the forehead. Then she stood up and began to gather the baby’s belongings: her changing bag, spare bottle, soft toy. There’d be a limit to the amount of stuff she’d be allowed to bring on the plane. At least she wouldn’t be travelling on her own. Rebecca had flown over as soon as she heard what had happened and they would go back to London together the following day. It would be easier, bringing the baby through the airport if she had another adult in tow. And Rebecca had proved herself an adept babysitter. She had even changed several nappies, without complaint. People, thought Yvonne, were always surprising you.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  Yvonne didn’t answer. Rebecca said she could stay with her as long as she wanted. After that? Well, she had money to do whatever she wanted. Oh, she had money alright. That, at least, was a certainty.

  Bill spoke again.

  ‘You will be back?’

  She lifted her head and looked at two sets of blue eyes.

  ‘For the court case. That’s all.’

  ‘We will — We will get to see Róisín?’

  Hannah’s voice sounded tired, and old.

  Yvonne shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You won’t keep my grandchild from me. I can’t lose her as well.’

  Yvonne hoisted the little girl up onto one shoulder and her bag onto the other. Róisín, as if aware of the atmosphere in the room, looked around solemnly, and didn’t cry.

  ‘I’m going to go.’

  Back straight, Yvonne opened the door and walked out of the apartment. She didn’t look back. This time, she knew nobody would be waving goodbye.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Sunday morning

  She was thinking of Réaltín as her eyes closed. She sank back into the sofa and felt Gerry’s hand tighten its grip on her shoulder. It felt nice, protective. He was taking care of her. Like she took care of her daughter.

  She had dreams for Réaltín, dreams as fierce and as optimistic as the ones her own mother had once had for her. The university education, the good job. That bloody photograph on the sitting-room wall with the mortarboard that had been so hard to keep on in the wind. It had all worked out so very well.

  It would break her mother’s heart if she knew how depressed Miriam had been these past two years. It was just all so difficult. The rushing around, the mad dash from bed to childminder to work and then back again. The evenings spent changing nappies, making bottles, scraping half-eaten dinners off the kitchen floor, picking up toys when the child was finally down before collapsing into bed and waiting to be dragged from sleep again. Endless. She loved Réaltín, loved every inch of her, but it was hard, doing it on your own.

  So when MammyNo1 had sent her the message about the night out, it had sounded like a great idea. She needed a laugh. A few drinks, a chat with girls who all knew what she was going through. A bit of fun. And then they hadn’t bloody showed up, and while she’d been sitting there on her own, looking like a complete eejit, who’d walked into the pub? Only Gerry Mulhern, from the UCD days. Alone, and looking for a quick drink before heading home.

  He was broader than he had been in college, better dressed, more polished somehow. She could almost imagine he was taller, if that didn’t sound ridiculous. Gerry.

  ‘Y’okay there?’

  She must have said his name out loud. She smiled sleepily and nestled closer to him. Gerry Mulhern. It had taken him a moment to recognise her. The past five years hadn’t been as kind to her as they had to him. But then he did the whole kiss on the cheek, howerya doing, my God it must be how long? thing. And she decided to stay and chat for a while. He was on his own, he said. Lived in the area, often dropped in for a quick pint. The place was convenient if nothing else. They’d both looked around then, at the sticky tables and smeared counter, and laughed at the same time. She had said hers was a G. and T. And then he insisted on buying a second round.

  The last time they had met, that night in the college bar, had been horrible. She hadn’t been able to see past Paul in those days, and Gerry had just been one of the lads, Eamonn Teevan’s slightly gawky mate. But after a feed of pints and a couple of shots that someone thought would be a great idea, he told her he was in love with her. She had been so taken aback she had laughed, right in his face, and called him ridiculous. She still remembered how shattered he’d looked as he fished the words out of the tequila. And then the rage. He had been so angry. He said terrible things to her that night, words that echoed around the bar and sent her hurtling first for the door and then the safety of Deirdre’s bedsit. At the time she had thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

  But that had been a long time ago. Now five years, one child and a broken relationship later, she knew what real misery felt like. That night in UCD had been typical drunken student stuff, nothing more. A bit of drama. And it looked like Gerry was cool with it now as well. He worked in TV, he told her. Still mates with Eamonn Teevan after all these years. He wasn’t married, wasn’t in a relationship. No time, he grimaced, and mentioned his fourteen-hour days.

  It sounded like an interesting life, nothing like her own. She was, what? A mammy? A lecturer? The head of a single-parent family, according to the census form. Once, she had been the best-looking girl in third-year English. Most of the lads in the class had fancied her; she had known it, deep down, even though she had been too wrapped up in Paul to take advantage. They wouldn’t fancy her today, not if they saw her carrying the extra two stone that had been an unwanted gift from her daughter, wearing the wornout clothes she had neither time nor money to replace. Gerry Mulhern said all the right things though. Told her she hadn’t changed. Comforting lies.

  He put his wine glass on the table and his hand brushed against her chest, softly enough for it to appear accidental. Then he stroked her in a way that wasn’t accidental at all. She shivered. It had been a long time since anyone other than Réaltín had touched her. She was just so tired though. Struggling to stay awake. Gerry was lovely. But this wasn’t the right time.

  His hand was caressing now. Stroking and smoothing. She felt warm breath on her cheekbone. A kiss descended.

  She had only wanted a drink, and a chat. A laugh. She had wanted to remember what it felt like to be that girl in third-year English. Nothing more.

  ‘No.’

  But the word was slurred, her tongue thick in her mouth. Alarmed, she realised she was finding it difficult to open her eyes. The p
ressure on her breast increased as he found the nipple and pinched it roughly.

  ‘No, Ger.’

  She shook her head, moved forward on the sofa.

  ‘Gottagohome …’

  The arm pulled her back, pinning her down.

  She took a deep breath and concentrated on getting the words out without slurring.

  ‘Serioushly, no. It’s been really lovely, but …’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  It was then she realised that he didn’t sound drunk at all.

  ‘Hey.’

  She kept her voice soft, anxious not to antagonise him.

  ‘Not tonight, okay? Maybe I can get your number?’

  ‘Yes. Tonight.’

  She was gone then, for a moment, and then there was corduroy under her cheek. She was lying on the sofa and his hands were raking at her waist.

  ‘Jesus, Gerry …’

  She heard, as if from a great distance, how weak her voice sounded, and then realised he was laughing.

  ‘You haven’t changed that much, have you, Miriam? Still the prick tease. You’re not running out of here tonight though.’

  Her eyes closed again. She had to move. But his weight was pressing her down and there was something else, a fog, a heavy blanket covering her, immobilizing her. His hands moved downwards.

  ‘No, Gerry.’

  He laughed, patted her on the hip almost playfully and asked the question again.

  ‘What’s your Netmammy password?’

  It was so incongruous, so irrelevant to the situation that she would have laughed if she hadn’t been so shit-scared.

  ‘Why …?’

  ‘Just tell me! Stop with the questions and just tell me.’

  She thought it was best, to do what he told her.

  ‘Sheep! It’s sheep. Now, please, let me go.’

  ‘You always had a great imagination, didn’t you, Miriam? Well, imagine this.’

  Roughness between her legs, the seam of her jeans being forced upwards.

  She needed her voice back, needed to scream. Lay still for a moment and then lunged forward, her knee connecting with his body. He hadn’t been expecting the movement and fell back, just a fraction, but it was enough to give her space to move.

  ‘You stupid bitch …’

  Air against her face, she forced open her eyelids.

  And felt his grip on her arms.

  ‘You’re not getting away again.’

  Five years had made no difference at all.

  She struggled as he carried her into the bedroom. She was reminded once more of her baby girl, how she protested when she didn’t want to sit into her buggy, arched her back, kicked, screamed. But Mammy was always bigger and Mammy always got her own way. A jerk, and his fingernail ripped against her cheek. A kick, which connected only with the bedpost. And then there was blackness, and falling. Réaltín. She had so many dreams for her little girl. Her eyes grew heavy. Réaltín. She was thinking of her baby as they closed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ‘So, ehm, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Grand, grand.’

  Claire knew that her voice sounded overly gruff, hearty even, but she didn’t care. There wasn’t any protocol for meeting a junior colleague in your pyjamas, particularly maternity ones that your mother had chosen. But Matt hadn’t given her a choice in the matter. It had taken her a long time to persuade her husband to let her talk to Flynn in the first place, there was no way he was going to allow her to get dressed and go downstairs to meet him. Under the circumstances, Claire thought he was being pretty fair.

  And to give Flynn his due, he seemed happy to ignore the pink frills. Instead he pulled out the large brown file, as neatly and efficiently as if they’d been sitting in Collins Street, and sat down delicately on the bedside chair. She pulled herself up straighter on the pillows. She found if she imagined she was wearing a dark suit it helped a little.

  ‘So, they were drugging her? Yvonne?’

  Flynn nodded.

  ‘For a good while. It was the girlfriend’s idea apparently, the nurse. Veronica – he rifled through the file – Veronica Dwyer, her name is. She was giving her cold and flu tablets, that sort of thing. Dropped into cups of tea. Simple, but they would have made her fairly out of it on a daily basis. Knackered. The grand plan …’

  Flynn raised his fingers and put the words in quotation marks. It was a gesture that would have usually annoyed Claire beyond reason, but this time she let it go. She was feeling rather fond of Flynn today.

  ‘The “grand plan” was that they’d convince everyone who knew Yvonne that she had post-natal depression. Gerry spread a few stories about her, told his family that he didn’t think she was coping. Stupid things, like a suit she was supposed to have collected from the dry cleaners, but didn’t. When he’d never actually told her about it in the first place. It was all supposed to paint a picture, so that when she killed herself, or it looked like she’d killed herself, no one would be surprised.’

  ‘And Gerry Mulhern told you this?’

  ‘Some of it. Once we confirmed it was his DNA on Miriam Twohy’s body, he started talking. I think he’s quite proud of what he’s done, actually. They can be like that sometimes. Scumbags. The lovely Veronica has been filling us in as well, I reckon she thinks if she helps us out she’ll get off, or get a lighter sentence.’

  Claire frowned. Juries had done stranger things in the past.

  ‘So, she’s admitted it?’

  ‘Kind of. She says she knows nothing about Miriam Twohy, but she’s admitted she was involved with the attack on Mrs Mulhern alright. She’s in love with him, of course, Gerry, and she claims he’s mad about her too. Met him shortly after the baby was born, when she called to the house to do a check-up. Reckons it was love at first sight.’

  He snorted, and Claire repressed a grin.

  ‘Anyway. Her story is that Mrs Mulhern was depressed, and neglecting the baby, and that the little one would be better off with herself and Mulhern. They were going to be a right little happy family, the three of them. They just needed Mrs Mulhern out of the way. So they made this plan, to kill her and make it look like suicide. She said something about the Netmammy website …’

  He looked down, checked his notes and continued.

  ‘… Mrs Mulhern used to contribute to it, apparently, and Miss Dwyer and Gerry Mulhern used to read what she wrote on there, to get inside her head a bit more. But we …’

  Flynn’s voice tailed off and he looked at the ground. Claire remained silent. They’d dropped the ball, or rather she had, by not realising the importance of Yvonne Mulhern’s initial call about Miriam Twohy and her Netmammy usage. At five o’clock that morning, lying in bed beside a snoring and oblivious Matt, Claire had tortured herself about the decision not to follow it up. By 7 a.m., she’d rationalised it, sort of. After all, Yvonne had called back and told them she’d been mistaken. It had been a perfectly logical thing to do, not to follow through …

  Perfectly fine. A little sloppy maybe. But fine.

  Maybe they’d have found the killer quicker. Maybe even saved FarmersWife …

  No. She must not think about that. Would not. Could not bear it. She looked across at Flynn, grimaced and then rubbed her hand across her face. Pregnancy was handy sometimes, a murmur that you were feeling tired and you could get away with a lot of things. She’d have to explain at some stage how she managed to track down LondonMum. Probably when the case came to court. She’d probably get into shit too, when it came out that she’d persuaded Shawn to change the passwords. It was hard, really, to know how this one would play out.

  But she’d worry about that in the future.

  Flynn looked up again and continued talking.

  ‘Anyway, Dwyer reckons it was all done for love. She swears she didn’t know about Mrs Mulhern’s money. Well, that wouldn’t be romantic, now, would it?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Claire raised her eyebrows.

  ‘M
oney?’

  LondonMum’s posts had been similar to most of the others on Netmammy, the odd moan about the price of nappies and how exorbitant babysitting charges meant a night out usually wasn’t worth it. She certainly hadn’t sounded like someone who had money to throw around.

  But Flynn nodded, and turned a page in his notebook.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. Yvonne Mulhern is all but a millionaire apparently. Only up until today, she didn’t know it. Her mother died in a nursing home in England a couple of weeks ago, left her a small fortune. But they hadn’t spoken in years, the mother didn’t even know she was married. She wrote to her when she found out she was dying, and Mulhern found the letter when he was packing her stuff up to bring it over here. He opened it without telling her and found out that her ma wanted to make amends.’

  ‘God. Right. Okay.’

  Claire nodded. Money. It was starting to make sense now.

  Flynn snorted. ‘He’s totally broke, Mulhern is. Bought a massive house when he came back from England, but he wanted to play the big man, buy the smart suits, have the nights out on the credit card, that sort of thing. The TV star. And he had to pay for the Merview apartment too, of course, his little love nest as well as his own mortgage. At the back of it he hadn’t a bean. Ireland 24 isn’t CNN as far as wages are concerned. Now, Veronica …’

  He put the emphasis on the second syllable, and rolled his eyes for good measure.

  ‘Veronica thought he was doing it all for love. But I reckon it was just the money he was after. He had it all thought out. He went over to the hospice in England and pretended to be a solicitor acting on Yvonne’s behalf. Made her mother sign a will leaving everything to Yvonne. Told her that Yvonne was insisting on it, that she wouldn’t travel over to see her if she didn’t sign. So she signed. But he never told Yvonne what he was up to, of course. And they’d already made wills naming each other sole beneficiaries after they were married. She’s dead since, the mother. One of the lads phoned the hospice in England. So if you hadn’t rescued Mrs Mulhern, Gerry would have been quids in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Claire nodded again. It was starting to come together now, alright. Of course, she knew more than Flynn about certain aspects of the case. How Gerry Mulhern had used MyBabba’s name to lure Yvonne to Wicklow, for example. But she wasn’t surprised, now she thought about it, that another person had been involved. Mulhern had used two fake identities, MyBabba and MammyNo1 and some of their posts had been very convincing. It made sense that he had been assisted by an expert.