The Wife Before Me(93)
I am witness to his tormented thoughts. I don’t want to be there but hither and thither like a feather I float and land. It would be easy to blame Yvonne. An easy target, indulgent and obsessed with her only son, unable to see the mote in her own eye and in his. But Yvonne is not to blame for his murderous intent. Nor are his antecedents, though there was a great-grand-uncle who terrified both of his wives into early graves. When it comes to the final roll-call, we are all responsible for our own actions and Nicholas knew from the beginning that he was set apart from others. He was gifted with an intuition that recognised vulnerability and could prey upon it. He chose well when he captivated Elena. An only child, no siblings or parents to give her support, her friends scattered. As isolated as the wife he had lost. Unable to see beyond his tragic past, no one makes that connection… except, perhaps, Henry, half-blinded by paternal love but beset by doubts he is now forced to acknowledge.
At Woodbine, where he takes Grace and Joel after their visit with their mother, he feeds his grandchildren and settles them down for an afternoon nap. He passes the bedroom Nicholas once shared with Amelia. The key, no longer hidden, falls at his feet and clatters on the wooden floor. He picks it up and replaces it in the keyhole. Why is the door locked? Why does he feel the urge to unlock it? Why is his skin crawling, as if beset by small, scurrying spiders?
Henry does not know what he expects to find there, yet he keeps looking in drawers, under the bed, in the wardrobe. He is shocked to see Amelia’s clothes still hanging neatly on hangers. Clothes so different from the ones she used to wear in those early years. The only eye-catching dress is the silver lamé one and even that, he knows, though he has no sense of fashion, is one Amelia would never have chosen for herself.
His movements become more frantic and finally he finds what he has dreaded, on the top shelf. Photographs of Elena going to and coming from work, at the supermarket, emerging from the sea, a swim hat in hand, walking with Rosemary in a park, entering the community centre to visit her children, and one that shows her outside a pub. He examines other photographs. A mother and child, an unruly lamb, the ocean thrashing below them.
‘Leanne.’ He breathes my name. The child is a stranger to him but the last photograph Henry comes upon will torment him forever. He recognises Neary’s distinctive décor. He had sat in that pub with Nicholas, comforting him, when tragedy came out of the blue and the woman he loved disappeared without trace. Now, he wishes he had the wisdom of Solomon. If he could cut the truth in half, he could endure it. But there is no middle ground. Either Elena Langdon is an insane liar or his son is a monster. The face of the person in the photograph is familiar to him. He has seen Mark Patterson on television. He has heard the request from the gardai for information from anyone who noticed him in the vicinity of the Grand Canal on the night he was attacked with a one-punch blow to his head.
Fifty-Six
Rosemary is visiting her sister for the weekend and will not be back until Sunday night. On Monday, she has an appointment to meet with Christopher Keogh. ‘He has some very interesting information to share with me,’ she said to Elena before she left. ‘He wants to discuss why I became suspicious of Nicholas. I wonder who could have alerted him that something was wrong? It appears that his golden boy is made from gilt.’
Alone in the house, Elena waits for the knock on the door. Henry will have reported her by now. She imagines the authoritative voices, the clink of handcuffs. Outside, there will be media, cameras flashing, questions shouted.
The night passes. She tries to distract herself by watching television. A crime drama is playing on every channel she zaps. Finally, she discovers a nature documentary that looks gentle enough to soothe her – until the animals obey their primal instincts and kill for their dinner. Giving up, she decides to go to bed. An envelope lies on the hall floor. She picks it up, thinking it will be addressed to Rosemary, and is surprised to see her name printed on it in block capitals. Opening it, she removes a sheet of paper that has been wrapped round a USB key. The message is stark and brief.
Be careful, Elena. You are being followed.
The USB key opens up as soon as she inserts it into her laptop. She stares at photographs that can only have been sent by one person. Henry’s phone is switched off when she rings him. His answering machine tells her he is unavailable.
* * *
The eyes that follow her must sleep at some stage and Elena has chosen the quiet of the small hours to drive through the slumbering streets. No car headlights beam in her rear-view mirror. The only traffic she encounters is trucks heading towards the ferry.
It is after five in the morning when she reaches Lily Howe’s Grocery Provisions. A light is shining from the window and Lily, muffled in a quilted dressing gown, waits in the doorway. She opens a gate at the side of the shop and gestures at Elena to park the car in the back yard where sacks of coal and turf are stored.
Mag’s Head, rising to meet the dawn, stands like a brooding sentinel over the small hamlet. The jeep arrives shortly afterwards. Elena and Amelia do not embrace. Their kinship, conjoined by secrets, is still too tentative for touch. They have accepted that their lives are in danger. Not to act now is to look over their shoulders every time they hear footsteps behind them.
Inside the cottage, breakfast is ready. Fresh fruit and poached eggs, a pot of strong tea, home-baked scones that Lily pressed into Elena’s hand as they were leaving. The radio playing early morning music and the heat in the kitchen from the wood-burning stove add to the cosy normality of their surroundings. The décor in each room has a flawless simplicity that combines comfort with style and reminds Elena of Woodbine.