Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense

by Laura Elliot

  He guided her across the road, his grip light but firm on her elbow. The noise fell away when they entered a hotel.

  ‘We’ll have coffee,’ he said. ‘The protest will be over shortly.’

  The thought of drinking coffee with a politician was horrifying. What would he do if he knew she was carrying illegal drugs? She repeated the words to herself. They had a terrifying force that excited her. Imagine the scandal – ‘Politician in Drug Exposé’. It was hard to remember a time when her heart was not doing little skips of anxiety. The sense of panic, of being on the verge of discovery, was such a high, an overdose of adrenaline.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said when the coffee arrived. ‘I have so little free time when I’m in Dublin. It’s a crowded city but it can be the loneliest place in the world when you don’t belong in it.’

  The hotel had swanky armchairs and was called Buswells. He said it was where politicians came when they were plotting how to knife each other in the back. He chuckled when she glanced nervously around. Not that she would recognise another politician if she saw one, though some of the older people sitting nearby recognised her great-uncle and stared quite rudely.

  He told her about his home in Anaskeagh, how much he missed it when he was in Dublin on Dáil business. He enjoyed deep-sea fishing with his friends and climbing to the top of Anaskeagh Head where the view was magnificent. He made it sound like the centre of the world.

  ‘My mother hated Anaskeagh.’ Lindsey gulped the coffee, scalding her mouth. ‘She said it was hell on earth.’

  He stroked his chin, as if he was remembering way back. ‘Perhaps it was to a child such as Beth. She took after her father, who had itchy feet. The faraway hills were always greener and Anaskeagh was a quiet place in those days. Not any more though. My son’s children are around your age and have no desire to leave home.’

  ‘How many grandchildren do you have?’

  ‘Six.’ He looked proud, counting out their names on his fingers. ‘Kieran’s three live in New York so I only see them occasionally. But I’m blessed with Conor’s family. They live in my old house. It’s too big and empty since my dear wife passed on, God rest her soul.’

  His deep rolling voice grew pensive when Lindsey asked if he had any idea why Sara wanted to die.

  ‘No one knows what goes on in another person’s mind,’ he said. ‘We only think we know but that knowledge is based on the depth of our own feelings. The kindest thing we can do is to let her soul rest in peace.’

  It sounded profound, the sort of thing a politician would say. It did nothing to help Lindsey understand. He was cute in a ‘has-been generation’ sort of way, calling her ‘my dear child’, but not in a patronising way, and able to listen without letting on he knew best. She told him about her paintings. He said a creative talent should be carefully nurtured and asked what inspired her. His questions challenged her, exciting her because her parents were never interested in discussing her art.

  ‘I’d be very interested to see your portfolio.’ He kissed her cheek as she was leaving and said it had been a pleasure to entertain such an intelligent, creative young woman.

  ‘Why don’t you come to our house for dinner some evening?’ she asked impulsively. ‘My mother would love to see you.’

  A shadow crossed his face. ‘Your dear mother and I didn’t always agree on certain things when she was younger. We’d best leave well enough alone.’

  He said time had wings when he was in such good company. ‘I hope we have the pleasure of meeting again, Lindsey. You must come to tea some evening in my apartment. Or are you too busy to spend time with a lonely old man?’ His smile was a question fixed strangely on his face, and he seemed pleased when she said she loved older people, especially Granny Mac.

  ‘Young people are always in such a rush these days,’ he said. ‘They never have time for those who’ve lived a little while longer. That’s all that separates the generations, my dear. A few short years.’

  She thought this was quaint and sentimental, even ludicrous. Old age was a yawning gap. Lindsey could never imagine falling into it.

  ‘Why don’t you invite your uncle to visit us?’ she asked her mother when they were having dinner that evening. ‘He spends lots of time alone in Dublin and he gets awfully lonely.’

  Beth sat perfectly still. Then her fists clenched on the table as if she were preparing to lift herself into the air.

  ‘When did you meet that man?’ she demanded.

  ‘When I was in town today. What’s the big deal? It’s my half-day from school.’

  ‘Albert Grant is not welcome in this house.’ She spoke slowly, as if Lindsey were incapable of understanding her. ‘You are not to have anything to do with him.’

  ‘Why? He’s really nice. I asked him to dinner but he said you wouldn’t make him welcome. It’s obvious he was spot on.’

  ‘Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes. But you’re not giving me a reason.’

  ‘I don’t have to give a reason.’ She stared at Lindsey as if she were a stranger with a bad smell who had wandered into her house. ‘As long as you live here you obey the rules.’

  ‘What rules? Thou shalt not talk to lonely old men. Which section of the rule book will I find that in?’

  ‘Lindsey! That’s enough,’ her father snapped. ‘If your mother tells you to do something she obviously has a very good reason for doing so.’

  This only spurred her on. ‘That’s what I want. Just a reason. And what do I get? Behave yourself, Lindsey! Do as you’re told! Don’t ask questions! Obey the rules or we’ll kick you out!’

  She was unable to stop, even when Beth rose to her feet and left the room. Lindsey realised she was shivering and it was only later in her bedroom with the music filling her head that she allowed herself to wonder at the inexplicable hurt in her mother’s eyes.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her sketchpad when Beth entered her bedroom. She pulled the plug on the stereo, creating an instant ear-popping silence, and hunkered down beside Lindsey.

  ‘Those mugs would crawl across the floor if they had the space to do so.’ She pointed at the three mould-encrusted mugs beside Lindsey’s bed but she no longer sounded angry.

  ‘I’ll bring them down later.’

  ‘Do that.’ Beth pointed to the sketchpad. ‘Can I see your drawings?’

  ‘No. I’m just messing.’ Lindsey bent protectively over the page.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be studying instead of messing? I told you what your teachers said at the parent–teacher meeting last week.’

  ‘Six times you did. But who’s counting?’

  ‘Your grades have dropped, Lindsey. They’ve more than dropped – they’ve plummeted. I know how much you miss Sara, but you have to pull yourself together. Is there anything I need to know? Anything you’re not telling me?’

  Lindsey sat perfectly still without replying.

  ‘Trust me, Lindsey. I won’t be angry if you tell me the truth.’

  ‘Why do you never talk about your life in Anaskeagh? It’s part of me too, you know. I’ve never met any of my relatives except for Marjory. You’ve never even taken us to Anaskeagh on holiday.’

  ‘I had a difficult childhood, Lindsey. It’s not something I wish to discuss.’

  ‘Sara said you were always causing trouble, fighting and breaking things and giving cheek. You ran away without saying a word to her, not even a note. But I guess when it came to leaving notes she got even in the end, huh?’

  ‘Why are you being so cruel, Lindsey?’

  ‘Cruel? It was cruel to try and drown Sara’s dog.’ Lindsey closed her sketchpad and shoved it back into her portfolio case. ‘What made you do such a horrible thing?’

  She had not intended to ask the question. It just blurted out of her mouth, and her mother gasped as if Lindsey had punched her in the stomach.

  ‘What did Sara tell you?’ She sighed as if she was very tired.

  ‘Just that. Was she tell
ing me the truth?’

  ‘Yes, she was. I did a very cruel thing. I’m ashamed that you should know about it.’ Her voice was so low Lindsey could hardly hear her.

  ‘But why try and drown a little dog? There must have been a reason?’

  ‘He kept licking my hands and clawing at me. He slept between us. I couldn’t stand it any more.’ She looked down at her hands and shivered. ‘I really don’t want to remember that time, Lindsey. Let’s just change the subject, shall we?’

  For an instant, Lindsey thought her mother was going to cry. She wanted her to cry so badly. She hadn’t seen her shed a tear since Sara had died. Not once. Lindsey wanted those tears to overflow like a waterfall and then she could lean into her mother’s chest and cry her own tears, tell her secrets, spill them into their sorrow. She wanted to tell her about the row in Havenstone, the shouting voices that were growing louder in her head. The words that jumbled together like a crossword puzzle, a cryptic clue that would not go away. And how Friday night in the garage was becoming so important that she longed for it all through the week.

  Chapter 23

  Connie McKeever had been Peter’s surrogate mother. She had given him the love his own mother never had time to bestow. Did her son lift Peter’s child with the same tenderness and cradle her? Surely he would know his own daughter? His blood would rush with recognition if she appeared before him. His heart would bond with hers the instant they met. Lindsey had been six years old when her parents returned from England. Stewart’s child. He had never doubted it for an instant until that night when Sara, pale and remaining achillingly distant from the impact of her words, said, ‘Lindsey is your daughter. Isn’t it time you opened your eyes and saw the truth, you blind fool?’

  Her mockery had been a dark pain. Peter understood that now, and only an echo remained of the rage that had driven him from Havenstone on that last, lost weekend.

  Christmas Day was a blur but he remembered Beth’s adamant denials. A tigress defending her young. His rights did not matter to her. If there was a truth to be prised loose, he would have to seek it elsewhere.

  Marina McKeever was waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant. She smiled across the wine glasses at him, a languid temptress remembering old times as only Marina remembered them.

  ‘What else brings you to London, apart from an uncontrollable urge to look up an old flame?’ she asked.

  ‘A meeting with Sara’s publisher,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh, my darling. How wretchedly sad for you.’ Botox had immobilised Marina’s features against sympathy but she gave his hand a comforting squeeze before accepting the menu from the waiter.

  The meeting with Sara’s publisher had been as emotional as Peter had expected. Silent Songs from an African Village was almost ready for publication. Jess had written the text that would accompany Sara’s photographs and the book, sponsored by Della Designs, would be a fund-raiser for the health centre the nun ran.

  Throughout the meal, Marina talked about her new boyfriend. He sounded indistinguishable from the other men who had moved in and out of her life. No doubt this one would also break her heart. The heat in the restaurant was overpowering. The food arrived, tiny portions arranged with artistic flair on their plates.

  ‘Where on earth did you discover this place?’ Peter asked. ‘It must have been designed by a demented plumber.’

  She glanced approvingly at the glittering chrome and glass décor, the utilitarian network of pipes across the ceiling, and assured him it was the latest in place. The place to be noticed. He believed her.

  He cut across her description of a holiday in her boyfriend’s villa in Provence and asked, ‘How was Beth when she stayed with you in London?’

  A short silence followed this abrupt change of subject. ‘Beth always stays with me when she’s in London…’

  ‘I’m talking about the time she left Della Designs?’

  ‘Oh… She was fine. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Apart from the fact that you dumped her without warning―’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Yes it was, Peter. Dumping girlfriends was your area of expertise.’ She placed her cutlery across her plate and rested her elbows on the table. ‘Is that why you asked me out?’

  ‘Of course not. I wanted to see you but—’

  ‘But you thought we’d take a little trip down memory lane, is that it?’

  ‘I’m not trying to upset you.’ He touched her arm, running his fingers along her tanned skin. She drew away from him, deliberately allowing his fingers to rest on the tablecloth.

  ‘From where I’m sitting, there’s only one person at this table who’s upset – and it’s not me.’

  ‘I’m simply trying to find out the truth about that time.’

  ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

  ‘Was she pregnant?’

  She gazed impassively back at him and shook her head.

  ‘Marina, please… I need to know. Sara said something… It’s tormenting me.’

  ‘Sara always tormented you, Peter. Whatever she said, you must let it go. Lindsey is Stewart’s daughter. He knew Beth married him on the rebound but they’ve made a success of their marriage. The last thing they need is you stirring up the past, especially as it has nothing to do with you.’ She gazed coldly across the table at him and signalled to the waiter to bring the bill. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we call it a night? I’ve an early start in the morning.’

  She glanced down at the bill and removed a credit card from her handbag. ‘I’m paying for this.’ She refused to listen when he protested. Her voice grew louder, attracting the attention of nearby diners as she pushed her credit card towards the waiter. Peter fell silent, knowing her ability to create a scene and wallow in the attention she would receive.

  He followed her outside. ‘At least let me call a taxi for you,’ he said.

  She shrugged and stayed silent when a London cab pulled into the side of the road. Peter gave her address and thrust a twenty-pound note into the driver’s hand.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ The driver sounded surprised and appreciative. The journey to Marina’s apartment was short. Peter knew it well. He made no effort to follow her into the back seat and she, turning her face to the window, gazed steadfastly into the night.

  The factory was in turmoil when he returned from London. A rumour had started among the workers that production was being moved to the Far East. An immediate strike had been called and the machines silenced. Jon Davern informed Peter that he was resigning and the shareholders would make no further investment in Della Designs. He paused to allow Peter to realise the seriousness of the situation, then announced that the bank was calling in his loan.

  Albert Grant was unavailable when Peter rang his clinic. His constituency secretary promised to pass on his message. Mr Grant was a busy man, she warned. She could not guarantee when he would return the call. Conor Grant was equally vague. His father had made a decision based on sound financial advice. An ungrateful workforce had left him no choice, and he was unwilling to risk any further losses.

  It had been twenty years since Peter had taken over the reins of Della Designs. Twenty years blurring, undistinguished, wasted.

  Chapter 24

  Her great-uncle paused over every page in her portfolio. Each drawing received his full attention. Lindsey was nervous, unsure why she had accepted his invitation to have afternoon tea with him. It sounded so old-fashioned. She had imagined cucumber sandwiches in triangles and tiny cakes on a tiered stand but there had been no sign of food when she’d arrived with her portfolio case.

  Answering his emails had been easy, especially when he had asked so many questions about her art, but here, in his apartment, with the sounds of the city too far below, she found it difficult to think of things to say to him.

  ‘Why didn’t you submit your portfolio to the art colleges?’ he asked when he’d finished examining her work.

 
‘I changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’m much more interested in studying computer science.’

  He looked unconvinced and, for an instant, she was tempted to tell him about that last weekend with Sara. The thought went just as quickly.

  ‘You’ve a natural talent,’ he said. ‘You obviously take after your father.’

  Lindsey disagreed but remained silent. Her father never claimed to be an artist. His drawings were precise, mechanical, unimaginative.

  Her great-uncle ground beans and made coffee from a machine. No jars of instant in his kitchen press. He liked things exactly right, he said. That’s why he was such a successful politician. He told Lindsey about his constituency clinic, so crowded with people who believed he could move mountains on their behalf. It was hard not to feel flattered that someone so important was interested in her work, even if she no longer cared about art or college or anything to do with the future. He lived in his apartment when he was in Dáil Éireann but he longed for the weekends when he could return to Anaskeagh to see his grandchildren. Framed photographs hung on the walls. Lindsey saw her mother’s cousins for the first time. Conor and Kieran with their wives and children, so many relatives, and they were all strangers to her. An older photograph hung among the newer ones. Carnival time in Anaskeagh. Swingboats in the background and the big wheel flashing lights. Sara was young then, early teens, Lindsey guessed, and she carried a white bear she’d won on the Wheel of Fortune. His arm was around her shoulders. His hair was dark then and shorter. His wife stood on the other side of him, a small fat woman in ruffles. Lindsey leaned closer. The charm bracelet she had taken from Sara’s jewellery box was on her aunt’s arm. Sara must have inherited it when she died. Marjory was there too, smiling into the camera, looking so unlike the cranky old woman with the pursed-up mouth that Lindsey knew.

  He carried the coffee to a wrought-iron table on the balcony. Lindsey sat on one of the two chairs and gulped great mouthfuls of air as it rushed in from the coast. Dún Laoghaire Harbour was visible, the sea glistening with sun-swept ripples. The ferries sailing across Dublin Bay reminded her of lumbering whales, thrusting their white snouts towards the horizon. Had her mother travelled on a ferry when she left Oldport for London? Weeks later, had her father followed her on the same one? They were married in London. Their wedding photo hung in the sitting room and Stewart, standing with his arm around her, looked so puffed up with happiness it made Lindsey smile every time she saw it. Until Sara had told her story – and then it just looked like a sham.