Authors: Julie Parsons
They’d celebrated for days after she’d been charged. Old Michael McLoughlin was her arresting officer. He was cock of the walk, in his element, at the time when he could still handle
everything. The drink included.
‘How does she look?’ Jack asked, remembering how she had looked then.
Andrew shrugged. ‘How does anyone look when they’ve been inside for that length of time?’
‘I dunno. Think of Nelson Mandela. He looked bloody great when he got off Robbin Island. Don’t they have a name for it? The sleeping-beauty syndrome, isn’t that what they call
it? All that routine life, no alcohol or drugs, plain food, plenty of outdoor exercise. I remember reading some article or other in one of the English papers. They reckoned that he was at least
twenty years younger than his actual physical age.’
‘Yeah, Jack, but there’s one major difference between our Nelson and Rachel Beckett. He didn’t have a guilty conscience. And he had three-quarters of the free world rooting for
him. He had right and God and whatever else you choose to mention on his side. I’m afraid he was a one-off in that respect.’
‘So she’s not gorgeous any longer?’
‘Depends what you mean by gorgeous. Her hair’s grey now. She’s very thin, almost frail. Her skin has that dried-up, bad-diet look about it. But, you know . . .’ Andrew
finished his second pint and raised his glass questioningly to Jack. Jack nodded. ‘Give her a couple of months, sea air, sunshine . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Gorgeous’ was the word Jack would have used about her back then. Some had been a bit more graphic, explicit. They’d all known her and fancied her at one time or another. She
was old Gerry Jennings’s daughter. His youngest, his one and only girl, his favourite. And they’d all been surprised when even Martin Beckett fell for her. Martin wasn’t like
that. He wasn’t the kind to get involved.
‘Do you remember at the trial, Jack, all that stuff about Martin’s brother, Dan? Didn’t she try and implicate him?’
None of them had believed a word of it. Michael McLoughlin had pooh-poohed it right from the start. He remembered him coming back into the station after he’d been with her in the house.
After he’d confronted her with the shotgun and told her about the fingerprints, that they matched hers. He’d walked in and announced to the whole room that the woman had come up with
another great story. She was blaming it all on the brother. And did she have a reason for her allegations? It would have made some sense if there’d been something going on between them. But
she was adamant, they were just friends, nothing more.
So tell us, Rachel. Tell us again what really happened. You’re backing off from your ‘masked men’ story, is that right? So, start from the beginning. You say that you and
Martin had a row. What was it about? Nothing much, you say. He was drunk. He was often drunk these days. And when he got drunk he got violent. Is that your story now? Well, you were right about one
thing. He was drunk all right. His blood alcohol level was five times over the legal limit.
So you were frightened what he was going to do, scared of him. So you phoned your brother-in-law to come and help. Why didn’t you just leave yourself, just get up and go? The car was in
the garage, you were a free woman. So why did you stay in the house with a man who you say was drunk and violent? Tell us, then, what happened next? Tell me about Dan Beckett.
‘You went to the trial, didn’t you, Andrew?’ Andrew’s face was devoid of colour. He looked exhausted. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He gazed
at his reflection, blurred, unfocused, in the mirror on the opposite wall. He knew he should go, that Clare would be waiting. But he couldn’t face her. Not just yet.
‘Hey, Bernie, same again,’ he called to the barman. He glanced over at Jack who was slumped back against the padded upholstery, munching handfuls of dry-roasted peanuts. Andrew had
known him one way or another for years. He’d watched his progress through the guards, followed his domestic ups and downs. He had to admit that Jack was looking pretty good these days,
despite his moaning about the wife. He’d lost weight, got his black hair cut short in a kind of Brad Pitt look, and he no longer wore that beaten-puppy air which had hung around him in the
months before he’d finally left home. He waited until the barman had dumped their drinks on the table, taken his money and retreated behind the counter, then said, ‘The trial?
Beckett’s trial? Yeah, I was there for a bit of it.’
‘What did you think of Dan Beckett?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘He had an alibi. It was his mother, wasn’t it? Didn’t she say he was at home with her at the time? And I think the general feeling was that she’d be
hardly likely to make up something like that to protect her son’s killer. Even if the suspect was her other son.’
‘Her adopted son, Andy. Don’t forget that.’
‘Yeah, so, her adopted son. Still the person who had been accused. Surely above all she’d want justice, wouldn’t she?’
‘Even when it came out that they’d been having an affair. Rachel, her daughter-in-law, with Dan, her son?’
‘But even you lot didn’t believe that Dan was involved, did you? You didn’t believe what she said about what happened. You never charged him with anything.’
‘No, we didn’t. We had him in for questioning, all right. I remember. His father came with him. Tony Beckett, another old-timer. I never knew him, but everyone else did. Half the
lads in the station were working for his security company, on the quiet. Doing nixers here and there. So they all knew Dan too. They all had stories about Dan, how he was Tony’s gofer. Drove
him around everywhere in that big old black Merc. Bought him his Cuban cigars and his bottles of Bushmills. Took him to the golf club for his dinners and drove him home afterwards, old Tony snoring
away in the back and Dan as sober as a judge. Also took him on his trips to the girls in the massage parlours that they did the security for.’
‘You’re kidding, massage parlours? At his age, lucky old sod.’
‘Yep, the guys in Vice knew all about it. But mind you, they know all about the foibles and peccadilloes of half the pillars of this society. They’ve got some stories to tell.
Anyway, so when Dan came in for questioning it was all backslapping and reminiscing. The good old days, the great rounds of golf. But they didn’t get anything out of him anyway.’
‘And the same thing at the trial too. He said that when he left the house, Martin was asleep on the couch. The jury believed him and they didn’t believe her.’
‘That’s right, that’s what it came down to. And what about you, what did you think? Then. And now, after you’ve met her, what do you think now?’
‘What I think, Jack, is that I’m late. I’m going to finish this in double-quick time, and then I’m going home. That’s what I think.’ He picked up his pint and
drank deeply. He put the empty glass down neatly on the beer mat, stood, picked up his briefcase, nodded, then walked to the door.
Poor fucker, Jack thought. What a life. Around him the bar was beginning to fill up. It was an odd place for a probation officer to drink, he thought, not for the first time. At a casual glance
he could spot any number of Andrew’s former and current clients. They’d all have been mates of poor dead Karl O’Hara. He’d be seeing a lot more of them in the days to come.
His heart sank as he thought about it and remembered the state of the poor kid’s body, and then remembered the way Martin Beckett had looked in death. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. A
huge wound in his groin. Half his abdomen blown away. A dreadful smell. Blood everywhere. Dried, dark, sticky.
But at least his face was untouched. They’d taken him home to his parents’ house after the post-mortem and all the forensic formalities. There’d been a huge crowd to pay their
respects. Jack had been nervous about approaching the coffin. But Martin looked fine. Very pale, his fair hair slicked down over his forehead. His eyelids closed over his bright blue eyes. And she
had been sitting beside him on an upright chair, silent, rigid with grief, he had thought. Jack had been part of the Garda escort to the church. He had liaised with Dan Beckett about the
arrangements. The parents couldn’t cope at all, they were so distraught. He’d always liked Dan somehow. He was much more easygoing than his brittle, difficult, ambitious younger
brother. But then, Jack remembered how he’d pointed it out to Andy, they were only brothers by adoption. Not by blood. What difference does that make, he wondered as he finished his drink and
wiped his salty, oily fingers on a piece of crumpled tissue. It must mean something. It must be significant. There must be a difference, in personality, in character as there is in looks. He stood
up and put on his jacket. And then he wondered if Dan Beckett knew that after all these years his sister-in-law was free.
I
T HAD BEEN
so cold, the day that Martin died. Early March, daffodils everywhere, glowing with the promise of spring sunshine still to come, but ice on
the roads in the early mornings and a lowering grey sky which had been threatening snow all week. She remembered the chill in the air, how it had been, as she walked now along the road by the sea,
towards the DART station. Today there was an easterly wind, so even though the May sun was warm on her face and hands, she could feel a shiver running up her spine, gooseflesh rising on the skin of
her upper arms, her nipples tightening.
All that week, all those years ago. She remembered the red of Amy’s cheeks as she hopped and skipped on the doorstep, waiting for Rachel to come outside to unlock the car door. She was
going to stay the night with her friend from playschool. The child’s name, Rachel remembered, was Lulu. Her parents were English. It was Lulu’s birthday and her mother was going to take
them to see a film. Which one was it? A Disney cartoon or something like
ET
? She couldn’t remember, but she did remember how excited Amy had been. The child couldn’t keep still.
She had hopped and skipped up and down, swinging her patchwork bag from side to side. The one that Rachel had made her for Christmas, just big enough to hold her nightie, and her teddy, and her
hairbrush and toothbrush.
‘Come on, Mummy. Hurry up. I’m waiting, I’m waiting.’ Rachel could hear Amy’s voice, sing-song now as she repeated the same phrases over and over again, running
backwards and forwards from the front door to the gate, while Rachel fiddled with the lock, checked in her bag that she had her purse and the letters she wanted to post, then remembered that Amy
needed her woolly hat, and went back into the house to look for it. And all the while hearing Amy’s voice.
‘I’m waiting, I’m waiting. Come on, Mummy, silly Mummy, slow coach Mummy. I’m waiting, I’m waiting.’
But Amy needed her hat because she’d just had another ear infection. She hated wearing it. Rachel knew what she would say.
‘No, Mummy, I don’t like it, it makes my head itchy.’
But she’d have to insist, even if it meant putting up with tears and tantrums. Otherwise the cold wind would make her ears sore again.
And just as Rachel had finally got everything together and had closed the door and checked that she had locked it, she heard the phone ring. And she turned, hesitated, waited, wondered. Perhaps
it was Martin? He had said he would phone last night but he didn’t. He was away again. He was always away these days. This time it was Los Angeles. Some kind of international conference of
forensic scientists, she thought that was what it was. She was angry. He’d said he’d phone and he hadn’t. She was sure it was him now. She turned back to the door.
‘Hold on, love, I won’t be a minute. It might be Daddy, don’t you want to say hallo to him?’ And she had her keys out and unlocked the Chubb and then the Yale and pushed
open the door and ran down the hall to the kitchen. And just as she reached it, just as she picked up the receiver, it stopped ringing, and there was nothing but the dial tone vibrating in her ear.
And then another sound. Louder, terribly loud. A screech of brakes, like a sound effect from a TV movie, and a scream, and a thump. And another scream. A howl. And she turned. Could see down the
hall, the front door open, the cold bright light falling on the polished floorboards, and outside the flagged path to the gate, the gate open, a car stopped just beyond. And now there was
silence.
All that week it was so cold. She remembered that she never seemed able to get warm. Sitting in the ambulance beside Amy as they rushed her to hospital. She looked perfect. There was hardly a
mark on her, a graze on her cheek and a small bruise above her right eye. And then Rachel heard the ambulance man swear beneath his breath and she saw Amy’s face change colour, suddenly very
pale, her breathing shallow and very fast. She began to whimper, looking up at her mother. She was frightened. Rachel saw the ambulance man reach for her wrist, feeling for her pulse. Quickly
strapping the tight black band around her upper arm, listening with his stethoscope.
‘What is it, what’s happening to her?’ Rachel’s voice bounced off the shiny surfaces on the inside of the ambulance, competing with the high-pitched wail of the siren. He
didn’t answer. His fingers rested on Amy’s wrist, then moved to feel for the pulse in her neck. And all the while the child’s face grew whiter and whiter, until Rachel began to
feel that she would disappear in front of her eyes.
So cold too sitting in the waiting room after they had taken Amy away, and every time the swing doors opened a blast of chilled air enveloped her and inched open the other doors, the ones that
led into the emergency cubicles where she knew Amy was lying. And every time the doors creaked open she thought that someone was coming out to tell her Amy was all right, Amy was fine. It was
nothing serious. But if that was so she would have been there, at her bedside, holding her hand, instead of waiting here in the cold. And then a young doctor was standing in front of her. There was
blood on his green scrubs and dark circles under his eyes. She felt his hand on her shoulder as he told her that Amy’s spleen had been ruptured. She was bleeding internally. They were going
to have to operate. She’d already lost a lot of blood. Would she sign the consent form? He handed her a piece of paper and a pen. Her hand shook as she wrote, and looking down she saw that
she had used her maiden name, Jennings, she had called herself Rachel Jennings. She crossed it out quickly, put Beckett. How stupid of me, how silly, she said as she handed it back to him.