The Godforsaken Daughter Page 6

“Graphic design. Being creative, she wasn’t cut out for the discipline of it. Hated the nine-to-five routine. Her mother had been a shoulder to cry on. Very unexpectedly, that prop had been taken away. It was all too much for her. She’d been left bereft.”

  “And you helped her through?”

  “Yes. She credits me with having saved her from herself.”

  Hanson gave him a puzzled look.

  “It’s my job, Sergeant. To bring people to a better understanding of themselves—to save them, in a way. It’s an expression I hear often in my line of work. Nothing more than that.”

  “When did your relationship begin? In the romantic sense, that is.”

  “We didn’t start going out until after she was discharged from hospital, of course.”

  “How long?”

  Irritated now. “Look, is all this necessary?”

  “Yes. How long?”

  “A few months, perhaps. I don’t keep diaries. I don’t record every detail of my private life. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Hanson was unfazed. “And who contacted who first?”

  “I called Connie. I was worried about her. I needed her to know that someone cared about her. She didn’t have any support, really. Her sister, Betty, was married with young children, her college friends resented her for leaving, so she was more or less on her own. Our relationship grew from there.”

  “She was very vulnerable.”

  Hanson had looked up from her note taking for the second time. The unspoken implication “and you took advantage of her” quite plain in her bald, unblinking stare.

  “Vulnerable? Yes, you could say that. That’s why I felt very strongly she needed support.”

  “You felt she might attempt suicide again.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Has she ever attempted suicide since?”

  “No.”

  “Is she on medication?”

  “No.”

  “And you’ve been married for—”

  “Nine years.”

  Hanson raised an eyebrow. “A whirlwind romance, then?”

  “You could say that. We married within a year of meeting, yes.”

  “Constance is now thirty, correct?”

  “Yes . . . Her birthday was just . . . just . . .” Henry had to fight the tears back, remembering their celebratory dinner at The Pheasant restaurant on Victoria Street. Could it now, in retrospect, have been their last celebration together? “Just . . . just three weeks ago.”

  “A milestone age, some would say. How did she feel about turning thirty?”

  “Okay . . . I suppose. I mean, she didn’t dwell on it, if that’s what you mean. Not really.”

  “You have children, Dr. Shevlin?”

  “No . . . no, we haven’t.”

  “You didn’t want them?”

  “No, on the contrary . . . we wanted children, but Connie, she . . . she couldn’t have children.”

  “She regretted that, obviously?”

  “Yes, but had accepted that it was not to be.”

  Hanson laid down the pen, laced her fingers together.

  “Where do you think your wife might be, Dr. Shevlin?”

  “I don’t honestly know. She’s never done anything like this before. It’s an absolute mystery to me.”

  “Wednesday evening, when she didn’t return home, did you go out looking for her?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Would seem a natural thing to do in the circumstances.” She took a sip of the tea but her eyes never left his face.

  “I assumed she’d gone shopping. She often did on Thursday evenings. Only, for some reason I mistook the days. I waited until closing time, thinking she’d be back. When she didn’t turn up I rang Betty. Look, I’ve been over all this with Constable Nelson. At the station. Is—”

  “Does she work full time?”

  “It depends. If there’s a production on, she’ll go in more often. If not, then she’ll work on private commissions and the pace is more relaxed.”

  “By private commissions, you mean what exactly?”

  “Oh, paintings, screen prints . . . for businesses, usually. Banks, public spaces . . . that kind of thing. She likes to work on large-scale projects.” He pointed to a substantial triptych on the far wall, which showed a picnic scene in the woods. “That kind of scale.”

  Sergeant Hanson left her chair to take a closer look.

  “She’s very talented. Where is this?”

  “Ravensdale, County Louth. We walked through it once and had a picnic. Connie took photographs. She’s a recorder; she rarely leaves home without her camera.”

  Hanson turned from her inspection of the triptych and resumed her seat. “Did she take it on this occasion?”

  “What?”

  “Her camera.”

  “Probably.”

  “You haven’t checked?”

  “No. It never occurred to me. I checked for her passport and her handbag. The camera is small and she usually keeps it in her handbag. That’s why I didn’t feel it necessary to do a separate search for it.”

  “Hmm . . . Does she have a best friend?”

  “No.”

  “No female friends?”

  “Well, there’s Geraldine, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  “Yes, from art-college days. They only meet three or four times a year.”

  “Did you call her? This Geraldine . . . er . . .”

  “Reynolds. Geraldine Reynolds. No, I didn’t call her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Firstly, it would seem highly unlikely that Connie would take a bus a hundred miles to Sligo to visit Geraldine without telling me first. And secondly, I wouldn’t dream of calling Geraldine, and so cause her unnecessary worry.”

  “Connie’s answerable to you in everything she does, then?”

  “No, not everything. Of course not. I find your line of questioning intrusive, Sergeant.” Henry was really irritated now.

  “Apart from her work at the studio, shopping, walking in Sir Thomas and Lady Dickson Park, visiting her sister, what other places might she be likely to frequent?”

  “We go to restaurants, but always together. Can’t imagine Connie wanting to eat out alone. She likes company.”

  “Your company?”

  “Yes, I’m her husband. It’s natural for a husband and wife to want to be together.”

  At that moment, Constable Lyle was heard coming down the stairs. He’d placed Connie’s diary in a cellophane bag and was holding something else.

  “Anything to report?” asked Hanson.

  “Apart from the diary, just this.” He handed her a bottle of pills.

  Hanson read the label. “Indalpine? Can you explain these, Dr. Shevlin?”

  “Yes, it’s an antidepressant. What of it? I’m a psychiatrist; medications sometimes find their way home with me. It doesn’t mean that either Connie or I are using them.”

  Sergeant Hanson set the bottle down in front of him.

  “If that’s the case, Dr. Shevlin, why is your wife’s name on the label and why are they dated to within the last fortnight?”

  Henry tried to hide his shock. He studied the small print on the label, noted that Boots, on Royal Avenue, had dispensed the medication ten days before. It was a central address, in the very heart of Belfast.

  “To be honest, Sergeant, I have no explanation. I had no idea Connie was taking these. None whatsoever.”

  “Good work, Lyle,” the sergeant said. She scribbled something at the back of her notebook and tore off the page. “My contact number, Dr. Shevlin.” She handed it to him. “That’s enough for now, I believe. But if you think of anything—anything at all—do not hesitate to call me. Honesty is always the best policy in affairs suc
h as this. Always.”

  Henry showed them out, his mind in turmoil. Connie had secrets.

  How could he not have known about the pills? How come he hadn’t seen them?

  How come she hadn’t told him?

  Chapter seven

  A blue Austin Mini bumped down Oaktree Lane, just as Ruby had finished securing the final sheet to the line. It swerved into the yard, narrowly missing a hen, and puttered to a halt by the water pump.

  Ruby concealed herself behind the washing line as Miss Ida Nettles extricated herself from the vehicle, an elaborate task because she wasn’t used to the car, having just acquired it. Six months earlier, she’d accomplished the amazing feat of passing her driving test on the seventh attempt, setting a record and making of herself an absolute menace on the road. It was rumored that Mr. Reilly, her instructor, had bought himself a brand-new caravan for seaside breaks on the back of Ida’s incompetence.

  Ida, a former midwife, was never going to let retirement stall her. She needed to be out and about, a community activist of sorts, so had reinvented herself as an Avon-lady-cum-nurse who could do hair, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and provide any other kind of cure—whether medicinal or herbal—from the depths of her commodious doctor’s bag. A bag she carried about clamped under her right arm like a bulging baby, fearing the straps too fragile for its many bottles of unguents.

  Ruby berated herself for not remembering that Monday was “Ida day”: her mother’s toes got done on Mondays. Had her thoughts not been in such tumult from the weekend’s events, she certainly would have remembered and made herself scarce. Because Ida was nothing more than a busybody who talked down to Ruby as if she were still seven years old, and carried stories from one house to the next, fattened with her own fictions, just for the hell of it. In another life she might well have been a tabloid hack.

  From behind the shelter of the sheet, Ruby watched as Ida hauled the bag from the backseat of the car, slammed the door shut, turned, and gazed up at the sky. Then, shielding her eyes from the sun, looked directly across to the garden.

  Ruby ducked behind the plum bush, but too late.

  “Ruby, is that you?” Ida called out. “You can’t hide from yer auntie Ida.”

  Damn!

  “Oh . . . hello, Ida. Didn’t see you there.” She picked up the laundry basket and, with reluctance, went to greet her. “Just putting the wash out.”

  “I see that. Well, how’s the mammy?”

  “A bit poorly, but nothing too serious.”

  Ida was five feet one, with a frizz of tightly permed hair the color of churned butter. Her tiny face was never without makeup; eyebrows and lipstick crookedly applied, due to progressive myopia, which, for vanity’s sake, she chose to ignore. Today she was in a frock of lapis blue, with eye shadow and sandals to match.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” she said, squinting up at Ruby. “And with what she’s been through, with yer poor father dying like he did . . . so sudden and all. Is it any wonder she’s poorly, but sure getting her toes done’ll brighten her up a bit. And how’s yourself, Ruby?” Without preamble, she loaded the doctor’s bag into the laundry basket Ruby was holding. “Now, a big strong girl like you can carry that in for me.”

  “Busy, as usual, Ida, so I am,” Ruby said, leading the way into the cool sanctuary of the house.

  “Well, that’s good. Takes your mind off your daddy. Now, put that down on the table there, like a good girl, till I get me biscuits.”

  Ruby had already plonked down the bag, having performed this ritual many times in the past. In seconds, Ida was diving into it.

  “Now, where are they?” She’d flung out a tin of talcum powder, a jar of fish paste, a bottle of Yardley cologne, and a can of hairspray, before spotting the biscuits. “A fig roll for a cuppa tea. You put the kettle on there, Ruby, like a good girl, and I’ll see to your poor mammy. She’s in the bed, no doubt, and that’s where she’ll stay, for it’s the best place to get the toes done.”

  “I’ll bring up the tea in a minute,” Ruby said—into empty space, for already Ida was gone, bag and all, up the stairs like a prairie province tornado, leaving behind a pong of scent in the air and a pack of Jacob’s Fig Rolls on the table.

  Soon, from overhead, came the sound of muffled greetings and a door closing. Then a thought struck Ruby. This would be the ideal time to go up to the attic and investigate Grandma Edna’s case. The door to the mother’s bedroom would be shut for the best part of an hour—the pedicure, four cups of tea, and a week of gossip having to be gotten through—therefore she would not be seen coming and going on the stairs.

  Thinking ahead—the case would be locked, no doubt—she went out to her father’s old toolbox in the shed and found a pair of sturdy pliers. She secreted them in her apron pocket.

  A few minutes later, she bore the tea tray up the stairs. She was about to enter the bedroom, but halted when she heard the name “Jamie.” She put her ear to the door. Her mother was speaking.

  “. . . and if she didn’t put him out of the field . . . me promising it to him on the phone a couple of days before.”

  “Away with you, Martha! Put poor Jamie McCloone outta the field . . . and him so lonely now without his dog and all.”

  “Oh, Ida, you don’t know the half of it. She ran out of the house like her backside was on fire, shouting at him.”

  “God, and what did Jamie do?”

  “Well, I’m sure he was very shocked at her . . . but after a bit they shook hands . . . So he must have been all right about it . . . Then got on the tractor and left. I was so affronted. But you know, between you and me, Ida, I said nothing to her. I’m afraid of her betimes. What she might do—”

  “God, d’you think she might attack you, Martha? ’Cos if that’s the case I could have a word with Dr. Brewster, about gettin’ her in.”

  Ruby’s grip on the tray tightened. She knew that “gettin’ her in” was code for having her committed to St. Ita’s mental institution.

  “Well, hopefully it’ll not come to that. Don’t know what’s got into her since Vinny died . . . I’m afraid in my own house. And when May and June come home at the weekends, it’s like the Divil himself gets—”

  Ruby steeled herself. She pushed open the bedroom door, immediately killing the conversation. The room was shrouded in Ida’s cigarette smoke. Both women looked her way, surprised faces confirming their guilt.

  “I’m going upstairs to clean the windees,” Ruby said, setting the tray down stiffly on a table beside Ida.

  “God, isn’t Ruby such a great help to you, Martha,” Ida said, flicking her cigarette in the ornate trinket box she carried about with her as an ashtray. “Sure where would you be without her?”

  “Oh, she does her best,” the mother said, unable to meet Ruby’s eye, “but she can be a bit of a handful at times, Ida.”

  “Well, you miss the farm work, don’t you, Ruby? Must be hard to get used to women’s work in the house.” Ida lifted the teapot and poured. “But y’know, if you met a nice fella, a nice farming fella, you’d be made, now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Ruby’s not interested in men. Not the marrying kind. Never has—”

  “There’s water in the kettle if youse want more tea,” Ruby cut across her. “But you’ll have to get it yourself. I’ve things to do.”

  She left the room, shutting the door sharply, snatches of that overheard conversation still fresh in her mind. “Put poor Jamie McCloone outta the field . . . and him so lonely now without his dog and all.”

  Well, that makes two of us, she thought. He’s lonely because he’s on his own and I’m lonely because I’m not.

  Chapter eight

  The attic was reached by a flight of stairs, which gave on to a rickety landing on the third floor. Ruby felt uneasy as she climbed up, not so much because of what she might find, but for her own safety. Would the worm-e
aten flooring be able to sustain her extra weight? She could not remember the last time she’d been up there, but was sure it must have been about a decade before, when she was quite a few pounds lighter than she was now. Usually it was her father who visited the attic to store things.

  The narrow door cried out as she pushed it open—as if protesting her intrusion—and she found herself in a hot, musty space, which smelled of mold and rancid apples. Long ago, her father used to make cider, and would store the fermentation buckets here in the cool darkness. Her eyes welled up when she spotted two of the big jars, one still unopened, yeast encrusting the sealed lid, sitting just inside the door. How long had it sat there? The cider he’d never got to drink.

  When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that unearthing the case was not going to be such an easy task. Her father had been a hoarder, the opposite of her improvident mother—who was always wanting new things. There had been many arguments between the pair when Ruby was growing up. So, to keep the peace, their compromise had been the way station that was the attic.

  The place was crammed: a steamer trunk belonging to Great-Aunt Agatha, which had crossed the Atlantic several times, a baby’s pram filled with toys and stuffed animals, a cane chair and an old green rocker with a stand of corner shelves jammed on top. These items commanded the most space. Boxes in various stages of ruin proliferated—there must have been at least twenty—containing schoolbooks, magazines, vinyl records, and bundles of old newspapers. Scattered here and there were picture frames, lamps, vases, plastic flowers, coat hangers, and a large mirror that used to hang in the living room when Ruby was a child. Pocked now, with many black age spots, it was suitable only for the attic, where throwing back reflections was as redundant as the rest of the long-retired bric-a-brac.

  She caught sight of a small red suitcase, faded to pink from sixteen summers under the skylight. It was the one she’d carried to Donegal for that ill-fated stint in the Queens Arms. Her only time away from home. Her only suitcase. She’d put it up there as soon as she’d returned home, not wanting any cringing reminders of Mr. Ryan and her failure as a waitress. Out of curiosity, she went over now, hunkered down, and snapped opened the hasps.