The Wife Before Me(68)

‘I did it, Billy. There’s only one way to plead.’

‘Did you tell the police he was violent?’

‘They didn’t believe―’

She stops abruptly when the patient next to Billy curses loudly as he tries to leave his bed. His right leg is in plaster and his struggle with his crutches adds to his colourful vocabulary. For an instant, he looks as if he will topple over. On regaining his balance, he swings round on his crutches and says, ‘I’m going to the shop for a paper. Can I bring you back anything, Billy Boy?’

‘Nothing, thanks, Red. I can hardly close the door of the locker for the amount of biscuits and chocolates in there.’

Billy introduces her. Red is a biker, bearded and heavyset, his ponytail as grey as his fuzzy beard. He broke his leg when he took a tumble off his Harley.

‘Did Amelia confide in you?’ Elena asks when Red has left the ward.

Billy frowns, shakes his head. ‘I wish she had. I’d have taken him apart if I’d known for sure. Did you ever tell anyone how he treated you?’

‘I was so ashamed and frightened, also, of what he would do. I still am.’

‘Will you come and see me when I’m discharged?’

‘I’m not allowed near Kilfarran Lane. I took a chance the last time. I might not be so lucky the next time.’

‘Then we’ll meet somewhere neutral. I want to talk to you about something but this is not the place for it.’

He stops as a nurse wheeling a blood pressure monitor walks towards him.

‘I’ll have to ask you to leave,’ she says to Elena. ‘Visiting time is over.’ She briskly pulls the screens around the bed, her stern expression warning Elena not to linger.





Thirty-Eight





Rannavale is exactly as Elena imagined. Flower baskets above shop doorways, a pub with white wrought-iron furniture out front. A busy petrol forecourt with a convenience store attached. The post office is located in the centre of the main street, a nondescript, grey building, quiet at this time of day.

‘What can I do for you?’ The woman behind the grid has a protruding lower lip and a pale-blue stare that tries to place Elena in some recognisable context. Unable to do so, she waits for her to speak.

‘I’m searching for the sender of this.’ Elena slides the envelope under the grid. ‘It was posted from here by someone called Leanne Rossiter.’

The woman’s lower lip drops fractionally as she studies the postmark. ‘That was posted years ago.’

‘This is all I have to go on. It’s important that I contact her. Does anyone by that name come in here regularly?’

‘Are you from the gardai?’ Her eyes narrow to a squint.

‘Absolutely not. But I need an address and I’m hoping you can help me.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t give out confidential information about our customers.’

‘Please, it’s vital―’

‘Let me stop you there.’ She shakes her head, apologetically. ‘Even if I knew anyone called Leanne, I wouldn’t be able to help you. But I can’t recall anyone by that name using this post office. We’re a small community and I know everyone. Perhaps the person who sent the letter was passing through. We get a lot of tourists here.’

Elena is not surprised. Rannavale has a postcard quality that seamlessly unifies the past with the present. Unable to tease any further information from the postmistress, she continues along the main street, stopping now and then to ask the same question of people passing by. No one is able to help her.

At the end of the main street, the sound of rushing water draws her towards a bridge. Down below, a river freewheels over stones. On the riverbank a heron, head erect, appears to be staring directly at her. A dog runs towards the bridge, yellow-coated and sturdy. A male dog, who plonks his front paws against the bridge wall and barks at the heron. Elena tries to guess the breed but there’s too much of a mix in him to decipher. His owner has shrunk into old age and walks slowly with the help of a stick.

‘Good day to you, Miss.’ He touches a cap pulled low over his brow and stops beside the dog. ‘I see you’ve met Custard.’

‘He’s a fine dog.’

‘He’s like his name, soft and yellow-bellied.’

‘He looks fierce.’ Elena stretches tentatively towards the dog and fondles his ears.

‘Just shows, doesn’t it?’ The man nods. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

‘I agree.’ Her mouth twists her smile away.

‘You’re a stranger to these parts.’ He states this as a fact, not a question, and makes no attempt to hide his curiosity. ‘A Dublin lass, from the sound of the accent. Are you visiting or staying?’

‘Visiting. I’m trying to find someone called Leanne Rossiter but I don’t have an address for her.’

‘Let me see now.’ He lights a pipe, his movements slow and certain, his fingers still nimble. The dog, clearly knowing he won’t be moving for a while, lies down on the bridge and closes his eyes. ‘Did you check with Kitty at the post office?’

‘Yes. She wasn’t able to help me.’

‘She’d know, right enough. I can’t recall a Leanne Rossiter myself. What makes you think she lives in Rannavale?’