But now this guy had pitched up.
Were Richard’s instincts right this time? Did this guy know something or was he just a bum? Richard’s instincts weren’t his strong point. Was it possible that he was right this time?
Charlotte was afraid.
Ruth
Berkshire, England
Present Day
Ruth sat in the clubhouse staring out at the eighteenth hole. Today was the Kennefick Cup, the event she was sponsoring. Today was important. Ruth would make a speech and she would present prizes to the competition winners. She had done huge work to improve her position as incoming Lady Captain and she knew that her presentation skills would be under scrutiny.
She felt on edge. She hadn’t slept, tossing and turning so much that Colin had gone up to the third floor to sleep. Ruth’s pink and white check trousers that had been a snug fit, felt loose today. She hadn’t eaten much over the last three days. Not since she’d received the phone call from Charlotte.
After presenting the prizes she planned to relax in the bar with Beatrice and Tess. Their children were in school with Michael and Claire. Beatrice and Tess were both from former mining villages in the North. Ruth had a feeling that just like her, they were reinventing themselves. Neither spoke much about their backgrounds. And that suited Ruth just fine.
The Kennefick Cup was in its fifth year and this year Ruth attempted to add to the prestige of the occasion. She glanced with satisfaction at the array of prizes. In addition to the trophy, there was a display of crystal, some jewelry, and designer golf shoe bags. Their firm Colin Kennefick Architects was also sponsoring the lunch as well as the prizes. Ruth had sought the services of an up and coming catering company in Ascot.
Parting with tradition, Ruth decided to present the prizes before the lunch rather than afterwards. Everyone would enjoy their meal far more, knowing they wouldn’t have to suffer boring speeches later. Ruth was used to public speaking. Every quarter, she made accounting presentations to the board of their firm. She presented to the board of management at the children’s schools, and she’d organised fundraisers for disaster reliefs.
But today felt different. Her mouth felt dry. She looked about the room. The golfing ladies varied greatly in age from women in their thirties to their eighties.
Clearing her throat she picked up the mike. “Testing, testing…. alright then, ladies, I won’t keep you too long. I know you must be hungry. You can be assured of my alacrity in handing out the prizes.”
A round of applause.
Still her mouth felt dry.
“First of all, if I may – this is the fifth year of the Kennefick cup and I along with my husband Colin of Colin Kennefick Architects am delighted to sponsor what has become a wonderful event here at the club. There are a few players today who have had outstanding rounds. Rumour has it that these ladies were working hard on their games as well as their tans in La Manga and Vilamoura.”
A ripple of laughter.
“Those ladies are to be congratulated today. The first of whom is… the first of whom is… And she is…” A blank. Ruth blanked. She looked down at her scrawled notes. Those names had been on the tip of her tongue. Why could she not remember? Her heart started to race. She fumbled through the papers.
The audience giggled, mistaking her confusion for a ruse. She fumbled some more. She spotted them. There they were!
“Those ladies are… Emma Smythe and Helen Rogers.”
A round of applause.
Ruth started to feel light-headed. What had she meant to say next? She couldn’t remember. But she’d practised for hours last night. What on earth was happening to her?
“While these ladies… ahem,” she swallowed hard, “these ladies may have not won a prize today…” She could feel the sea of faces scrutinising her, “they may not have come first, or second, or… or third – but they’ve had their handicaps cut by five whole points over the summer months.”
More clapping.
The women approach the prize table. Ruth is aware that they are looking at her oddly. The room starts to feel smaller and Ruth is sure they can hear her heart pounding. She presents the women with their special prizes with a trembling hand.
The next fifteen minutes are a nightmare. She stumbles over words she can barely remember. The mike shakes in her hands. Somehow she makes it through to the last presentation. She can see Beatrice and Tess exchanging glances. She’s fluffed it, they’re thinking. This was her chance. And she’d blown it.
Ruth disappeared into a cubicle in the ladies locker room and sat with her head in her hands. This had never happened to her before. Out of nowhere, she’d been consumed by panic. She’d hardly been able to breathe let alone talk. What a fool she’d made of herself. This was not the behavior of a Ladies Captain – a stuttering gibbering wreck. Why had her confidence and composure deserted her now of all times?
Ruth tried to compose herself. She washed her hands and looked in the mirror. She looked alright. Neat. Tidy. Crisply ironed polo shirt. She had nothing to be afraid of. For years she’d told herself that. There was only that one thing.
“You okay?” Beatrice had followed her into the locker room.
“A bit under the weather today, Bee.”
“The prizes were super.”
No mention of her presentation at all. It must have been appalling.
“Yes, they were rather nice, weren’t they?” Ruth tried to sound as if nothing was wrong. “Excuse me, I’d better see to the lunch.”
* * *
Back in the dining room, the caterers had been busy. A hum had descended over the gathering as hungry mouths tucked into the unusual appetisers that Ruth had ordered. There were murmurs of approval and nodding heads. Perhaps all was not lost.
“Delicious. You must get the name of the caterers for me,” remarked Nicola Ledwidge, the outgoing captain.
“Yes. Well done,” remarked Ellen Bartlett eating a stuffed artichoke heart. Ellen was responsible for the monthly newsletter.
Any approval was welcome, but from Ellen and Nicola, this was praise indeed. It was a snobbish club and Ruth suspected that many considered her an arriviste, as they did Beatrice and Tess. But she could cope with that. Anything was better than the stifling Ireland she’d left in 1992. “Would you look at Leonard Kelly’s daughter. Far too clever by half. The gall of her to go back to university, after what happened to her friend. I wouldn’t trust her an inch.” That’s what they’d said. Not to her face of course but Ruth knew they’d said it all the same.
Ruth didn’t feel clever today. She felt humiliated. She’d let herself down. The fear had taken hold of her. It had blind-sided her, making her appear incompetent, an idiot. It was the same fear she’d managed to hide from for so many years. Up until now.
It had been easier to forget in Britain. She couldn’t have stayed in Ireland, risking becoming a creature of scorn, of isolation – an oddity. When she’d graduated, her father convinced her to stay in Ireland, just for a while he said. Employment was scarce. There were no graduate jobs but she could try a community employment scheme for a few months. It would be something to put on her resumé if she was hell-bent on emigrating.
She’d joined a community employment scheme. But any hope of anonymity had been short-lived. Her second week in the scheme had coincided with the first anniversary of Sarah’s disappearance. There was a half-hour special on the TV. Had Mrs Nugent contacted any of them to let them know the program was going to air? No, of course she hadn’t.
Over the course of that year, it became clear that Angela Nugent had no affection for any of her daughter’s friends. Even worse, it seemed she didn’t even believe their story. Ruth had sensed distrust and loathing. Never had there been a single word of sympathy or understanding.
On the TV program, they aired that photo of the four of them, giddy on the roof of the Laurel Park carport. They showed the photo of Sarah on Dun Leary pier. But this time, they had an additional photo. This time round they also
showed a photo of a smiling Ruth on graduation day. A photo of her in a cap and gown. The whole day had been nothing more than a ritual that had to be observed for her parents’ sake. If ever there was a case of a picture painting a thousand malignant words – this was it.
The same pictures showed up in the press with damning headlines. ‘Sarah’s Pals’ Graduation Delight ’ read one. ‘Grief as Parents Watch Sarah’s Class Graduate ’ read another. The subtext was that Sarah’s friends had partied on, regardless. As if what had happened had left them unscathed, and that by default, they were heartless selfish bitches.
Back then, Angela Nugent had friends in the press. She was an influential woman. She had been behind the anniversary program entitled ‘ Nightmare in North Clare – what really happened?’ No one approached Ruth or Charlotte for an interview and Kathy was gone. How could they know the full extent of what had happened without consulting them? By not including a single interview with Ruth, Charlotte, or Kathy, it appeared to put them right at the center of what had happened. Ruth remembered feeling sick afterwards. All it had done was deepen the cloud of suspicion hanging over herself and Kathy.
Going back into the community employment scheme the following day had been every bit as bad as going back to college without Sarah the previous year. She’d recognised those surreptitious looks when people thought she wasn’t looking. The overly sincere smiles when she’d stumble on a conversation she knew was about her. Ruth was the latest small-town circus animal. She did the only thing she could. She got out of Ireland.
Now, somehow, it looked like the truth might somehow reveal itself. Without the truth, Ruth had been able to fool herself, to pretend that none of it had ever happened. But with the truth, she was going to have to face everything again. This freak show they had in custody in Ireland, was he going to make them go through hell for a second time?
There’d be a trial. They’d have to listen to all the gruesome details. On countless nights she’d imagined Sarah’s bloodied hands reaching out to her, calling out to be found. She’d imagined her being violated, being cut, left to breathe her last, alone, and hidden in the dark.
Was that sick hideous bastard going to finally admit to what he had done? Did perpetrators of violence and terror have some perverted sense of conscience or remorse? Charlotte said his hands were scarred. Had Sarah torn and gouged his hands trying to escape? Or was it some other terrified woman he’d locked up in a workshop or cellar? Had this freak found God in the face of a terminal illness?
The lunch was over and the dining room was beginning to empty. Everyone said it was a success, but for Ruth the day was spoiled. Her jaw clenched. This was not going to happen again. She’d worked too hard to see her dreams amount to dust. She’d earned a hard-won respect in both her professional and personal life. The ghosts across the Irish Sea were not going to drag her down.
Tess and Beatrice stayed behind to help her clear up. But all the while, her mind was in a holding cell in a police-station back in Ireland.
* * *
It was six p.m. before she clicked open the gates to the house. Colin’s car was in the driveway. She’d have someone to share a glass of wine with over dinner. She could do with one.
“Good day?” asked Colin.
“I didn’t make a good speech.”
“I can’t believe that, Ruth. That’s like saying Steve Jobs didn’t make a good speech.”
“No really, Colin, I was awful and I’m not sure I like being compared to Steve Jobs.”
Colin chuckled. “I’ve put on sausages and bacon for myself and the kids. Oh and by the way, Emma said that some woman from Ireland called. Someone called Charlotte?” He raised his eyebrow in enquiry.
For Christ’s sake, what was Charlotte doing ringing the house? Ruth had asked her to ring the mobile. She rummaged about in her handbag. But when she checked, sure enough, there were three missed calls from Charlotte. Her phone had been on silent since the golf club.
Time for wine. Ruth went to the fridge and poured herself a generous glass of Sancerre. Clutching the glass, she made her way into the conservatory with her mobile.
“Charlotte, I missed your call earlier. Is there news?”
Ruth could hardly make out what she was saying. Charlotte was in her car and the coverage wasn’t great.
“Sorry, Charlotte… could you repeat that?”
“… they let him go yesterday. But a file has been sent to the DPP, you know – the Director of Public Prosecutions.”
“What? You’re kidding.” She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t this. She cupped her wine glass tightly.
“No. No, I’m not, Ruth. He’s out on bail. His own bail bond. But listen. Here’s the thing. It’s weird. Really weird. Get this. Richard says this guy wants to meet us.”
Ruth spluttered. “He wants to meet us?”
“Yeah, he wants to meet us. You, me, and Kathy.”
At first she felt no pain at the glass cutting her palm.
Crash!
The wine glass shattered into a gazillion diamond pieces as it hit the porcelain floor.
Kathy
Dublin, Ireland.
Present Day
What would she do about Emma? Andrew couldn’t have her. He was going sailing. Even if she explained the urgency he wasn’t likely to oblige. He’d hate to think he was making her life any easier. It would stick in his throat. He’d probably accuse her of lying or going out on a date. She would deny it but he wouldn’t believe her. She and Andrew had been separated for nearly two years but Kathy didn’t have the stomach yet for dating. She’d been managing just fine, just her and Emma.
It was ironic really, the one man she’d been faithful to and he’d betrayed her. That blonde apprentice had been young enough to be his daughter. Her firm youth had flattered him and Andrew was a peacock of a man. Kathy’s marriage had failed – all for the sake of his office fumble and a few grubby afternoons in a mid-range chain hotel.
At times like these she missed her mother and father. They’d never known Emma. They were gone long before Emma arrived. That too was ironic. When she finally thought she might make a fit mother, it had taken her years of IVF to conceive. Lately, as she waited by the school gates for Emma, it made her sad to watch other kids being collected by their doting grandparents. Kathy and Emma rarely saw Andrew’s parents, even though they also lived in Dublin. Andrew had been at pains to keep Kathy at a distance from them – as if she might embarrass him.
She was stuck. Why shouldn’t she call on Andrew’s parents? Kathy couldn’t see any other solution. The situation was such an injustice to Emma. The child had only met them a handful of times. Just like any other kid, Emma was entitled to know her grandparents, despite them showing little interest.
Mrs McSorley was condescending. Sniffy. Kathy was at a loss to understand what her mother-in-law had to be so superior about. The woman had definitely not been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She’d worked in a cinema until she’d married Andrew’s father. Yet, she seemed to look down her nose on others.
Kathy toyed with the idea of bringing Emma to Limerick to meet her friends. It would be a chance to show her off. Emma would charm them all. She’d inherited that trait from Andrew alright. But, more importantly, Emma was living proof that Kathy wasn’t a failure – she’d done something right, she wasn’t a complete fuck-up, contrary to what Andrew said. And Kathy was managing to pay the mortgage solely from her earnings. She’d been surprised by her growing clientele in what was after all a very average housing estate. It wasn’t the kind of place where people spent their money flippantly. However, they seemed comfortable to share their ailments and their wages with Kathy. She had pitched her price list according to what she thought the neighborhood could afford. It was of course considerably less than the grand red-bricks of her former marital home but with an increasing number of clients she was doing okay.
“Emma, how would you like to stay with your grandparents for
a night or two?” Kathy asked her daughter.
Emma looked up from her Nintendo. “The McSorleys?” she lisped.
Kathy’s heart sank. That about summed it up. They weren’t Granny and Granddad, Grandma and Gramps, or Nana and Grampy. They were the McSorleys.
“Yes, honey. I have to go away for a few days.”
“But why can’t Daddy look after me, like the last time you went away?”
It still amazed her that Emma could remember that episode. It was nearly three years ago now, when Andrew had forced Kathy into rehab. He’d been too embarrassed by her to tell his parents.
“Daddy has to work. It’d be fun to spend some time with your grandmother and grandfather.”
Kathy was such a hypocrite. But what choice did she have?
Emma screwed up her face and mulled this over.
“I’ll tell you what, Mummy, I’ll give it my utmost consideration. If and only if you promise to bring me back a big surprise.”
Kathy laughed. Emma loved using the big words she heard Andrew using. It made her feel important. Emma collected words the way other kids her age collected stones or shells.
Kathy’s hastily conceived scheme had the added bonus that it would seriously annoy Andrew. Approaching his parents without his approval would drive him mad. It was petty she knew, but he could be petty himself.
Later that evening, having checked Emma’s homework and made hot chocolate, Kathy went upstairs and opened her wardrobe doors. Every outfit told a story. There were the trousers she wore at Emma’s last parent teacher meeting where she’d learned that Emma had a gift for maths. There was that tight fitting red sweater that she’d worn going to the bank manager to organise her latest loan. There was the mid-length animal print dress she’d been wearing at dinner when Andrew told her it was over between himself and his apprentice. In the following breath he’d also told her that it was over between himself and Kathy as well.
The Blue Pool Page 22
