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Sisters and Lies Page 14


  I want to see you, I replied, then paused and typed in something else.

  Book a room.

  28.

  Rachel: day eight, 1.30 p.m.

  I was determined to solve the mystery of Evie’s crash, except there was one small problem: I had no idea how to go about it. But then it occurred to me that I did know someone who could help me. Someone who knew that business inside out.

  I retrieved my battered green Filofax from my bag and began skimming through it. It was where I kept all my contacts, going back decades.

  ‘Lorelei Dixon speaking, PI.’

  Years earlier, when I’d been travelling around the States, I’d made friends with Lorelei, who at the time was a cop, and had a brief fling with her. We’d both realized very quickly I wasn’t girlfriend material.

  ‘I’m your “experimental phase”,’ she’d said, over one too many beers, and I’d had to admit she was probably right. Though I adored her, and found her sexy, something about what we were doing didn’t feel entirely real. More like a reaction to something else.

  ‘Lorelei, it’s Rachel. Rachel Darcy. I know it’s been a long time. How are you?’

  For a second there was silence, and then a huge rush of words. ‘Jesus Christ, Rachel Darcy, how the fuck are you? How are you doing? How’s the writing? I saw your new book in the store last week.’ I removed the phone from my ear for a second, Lorelei’s delivery delightful but overpowering on the eardrums.

  For a couple of minutes we strolled down Memory Lane. She told me she was married now, to a woman called Mary-Beth, and they had two children, Mike and Alice. Her private-detective business was doing well, though her mom had passed away the previous winter so she was still coming to terms with it. ‘And you know all about that kind of loss.’

  ‘I do,’ I said quietly, and we moved on. Eventually Lorelei stopped and asked about my life. ‘That’s kind of why I’m calling,’ I said. ‘I need your help.’

  After that she listened as I explained about Evie and the crash. About Donnagh. I was tempted to tell her about the TBM email but at the last minute I decided against it. It was just one email from some sex-starved wack-job. It would just confuse things. Muddy the waters.

  ‘What’s your gut telling you about the guy?’ Lorelei finally said.

  ‘He seems okay. He’s certainly very charming. But the thing is, I know nothing about him, save what I can find on the internet.’

  Lorelei snorted. ‘Fuck the internet. You were right to come to me. You say he lived in America for seven or eight years?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, I can do some proper background checks. Police data. College records. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Look, I’m sure he’s fine. And I don’t want to put you to any trouble if you’re busy.’

  ‘Rachel, are you kidding me? This is my job.’

  ‘I’ll pay you, obviously.’

  ‘Would you quit it? Give me a few hours, maximum a day, and I’ll find out as much as I can.’

  ‘You’re a star, Lor.’

  ‘Huh, too bad you didn’t think that when we were sleeping together.’

  There was a chuckle in her voice and, despite myself, I laughed too. ‘That was a long time ago,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Speaking of which, I read that you got married.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, the smile leaving my voice. I didn’t want to think about Jacob. Not now, when I was trying to remain focused.

  ‘Well, I hope he knows how lucky he is,’ Lorelei said, giggling. ‘A million lesbians would happily replace him.’

  I tried to laugh in response, but it was a fake, empty sound.

  ‘So I’ll let you know, hon, about this Donnagh character.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and we parted.

  That was the other thing I remembered about Lorelei: her sense of timing. It was what made her such a good private detective. She had an uncanny ability to know when to keep digging and when to leave well enough alone.

  A few hours later, good as her word, she rang back. ‘Well, he’s certainly a looker, isn’t he?’ she said, then proceeded to fill me in about his life in America: the college he’d attended; the name of his ex-wife; when he’d got divorced.

  ‘But so far, legally speaking, he’s coming up clean as a whistle,’ she said, almost as if she was disappointed. ‘All I can find are a few speeding fines.’

  ‘Hey, Lor, don’t sound so down. This is good news. It means I’m not living with a psychopath.’

  ‘You’re living with this guy?’

  ‘Yeah, didn’t I mention that?’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I don’t need to say that’s a fairly stupid idea, Rachel, given the situation your sister is in.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘Look, hon, he’s coming up clean for now. And you’re right, that is good. Just be careful, is all I’m saying. People aren’t always what they seem.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and thanked Lorelei for her concern.

  ‘I’ll do some more work on him. See if I can find anything else on the guy.’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘But don’t kill yourself. Not if you’re busy. You’ve already given me the basic information I need.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Lorelei. ‘And, Rachel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ll come through this.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yes. Just keep strong.’

  29.

  Before we hung up, Lorelei gave me some basic tips on how to go about investigating Evie’s crash on my own.

  ‘Talk to her neighbours – see if they can tell you anything. Then get your hands on her cell. Failing that, try to access her emails. Anything that will show you who she’s been in contact with.’

  ‘Evie’s laptop is password-protected. Plus I have no idea where her phone is.’

  ‘It could have been retrieved from the scene of the crime. Talk to the police and see if they’ll hand it over. They might, seeing as you’re next of kin.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Lorelei paused. ‘Trust your instincts, Rachel. Most detective work is about listening to your gut. If something feels off, it probably is. And, Rachel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful, okay? I’m just at the end of a phone if you need to contact me.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, then hung up. In a world of complete chaos, speaking to Lorelei had been like swimming in a sea of reassurance. She seemed so confident; so in control. That’s how I needed to be if I was going to get through this. If I was going to get to the truth of how Evie had crashed.

  I started with the neighbours, but none of them seemed to know anything or, if they did, they were not inclined to tell me. The only one who had offered an opinion was an elderly lady with a blue rinse, who clicked her teeth on hearing Evie’s name, muttered something about ‘loose moral standards’, then slammed the door in my face. After that I abandoned interviewing the neighbours, and rang around a few local art colleges, hoping to find out more about the evening course Evie had told me about. Unfortunately, though, none would release any information, claiming it was confidential. I got off the phone, buzzing with annoyance, but then again, who wound up in a coma from doing watercolours? The art course was irrelevant. I needed to focus on more substantial clues – like who Evie had been in contact with. Like TBM.

  Lorelei had mentioned the police report so I went back down to the police station and managed to get a copy of it. Ainsworth wasn’t around and I was grateful for that. If I ran into him, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to control myself. I was genuinely afraid I might try to smash his smug face in.

  Instead I focused on the report. According to that, a number of items had been found at the scene of the crash, most significantly Evie’s wallet and handbag. The bag contained all the usual things: her phone, some make-up, a notebook. What gems did the phone and that notebook contain? Details about the person who had hurt my sister? Details of her former life?

  I scanned the rest
of the list. Apparently, the police had also retrieved other items: a silver locket, now broken, which had slid off Evie’s neck as she’d been hauled from the wreckage of the car; a photograph, slightly ripped, referred to as ‘Man and Child’.

  I tried to steady my breathing. The silver locket had been my mother’s, a family heirloom passed down through generations of Darcy women. She’d given it to Evie shortly before she died, and I knew Evie never took it off. I wished that I could retrieve it now and wrap it around my sister’s neck again. Even if I didn’t believe in God, I still believed in my mother. In the power of her love.

  The photograph, ‘Man and Child’, was another matter entirely. It was a snap of Evie and our father, taken on Evie’s third birthday – just a couple of months before he had abandoned us and fled back to France. Evie had found it at the back of a cupboard when she was eight and had insisted on holding on to it. Why she’d bothered, I would never understand.

  I’d long since accepted that, while he was technically related to us, my father wasn’t really my father. He was just a DNA link. A biological memory. To be honest, the whole thing wasn’t even painful now. It was just reality. Like the fact that the earth is round or the sky is blue. But Evie had never been as pragmatic as I was. She had always nurtured a secret dream that one day we would all be reunited. Past hurts washed away – that kind of thing. It was sweet but it was also a delusion.

  Our father was a scumbag, who had abandoned a wife and two small children to a life of near poverty. Whatever about Evie, I never wanted anything to do with him. As far as I was concerned, he was as good as dead.

  Back in the apartment, I moped around a bit – pissed off I hadn’t got my hands on Evie’s phone or wallet. Without her phone, how was I supposed to find out who her contacts were? And while her computer was promising, there was a major problem because I didn’t know her password. All in all, it looked as if my ‘investigation’ was over before it had even begun.

  I’d walked downstairs to get some fresh air, and come up with a new plan, when I spotted a postman in the lobby just about to drop a bundle of letters into Evie’s postbox. Without thinking, I called out to him, and he turned. ‘Hey, are those for me?’

  ‘Are you Eve Durant?’

  ‘Ye-es …’ I mumbled.

  He handed me the bundle, clearly taking me at my (flimsy) word.

  Back in the apartment I placed it on Evie’s kitchen table and stared at it. Was I really going to go through Evie’s personal correspondence?

  Was I that desperate?

  The truth will set you free. John 8:32. I had passed a preacher on the street earlier bearing a placard with that message.

  Would the truth set Evie free?

  Set me free?

  But for some reason I couldn’t do it. Sure, I’d appointed myself lead detective on the investigation into my sister’s life but when it came to it, did I have the nerve to pull her secrets apart? To pull her apart?

  I took the letters and, without looking, pushed them into a drawer. Maybe it was best to forget about this whole stupid conspiracy theory. It wasn’t like I had proof of anything. Perhaps Ainsworth had been right: Evie had been trying to commit suicide. Simple as that. And I just needed to accept the truth.

  That night I didn’t eat dinner. Instead I went to bed early, tying myself in knots about Evie and what I should be doing to help her. After hours of insomnia, I found a bottle of Calpol and downed several large spoonfuls, desperate to escape from my horribly mixed-up mind.

  Later, deep in sleep, I dreamed I saw my mother. She was dressed in white and wearing Evie’s locket. She was mouthing something but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. The closer I got, the further away she moved. We were in the desert and I kept falling in the sand, my feet weighed down by something I could feel but could not see.

  At some point, she began tracing something on the ground, beckoning me to join her. I did so, but as I got close she became fainter and fainter, until finally she had disappeared.

  ‘No!’ I screamed. I began crying and, suddenly, I was back in Leitrim with my father who, bizarrely, was holding a fishing rod and some bait.

  ‘Here, Rachel, come to Daddy,’ he was saying, as if I was a cat. ‘Will we go fishing?’

  I was embarrassed by him, and wanted him to go away, but he caught my hand and held me tight. I screamed at him to let me go, but he wouldn’t. I was standing on the same sand that had been in the desert when I’d been with my mother. I looked down and saw the letters my mother had traced. She had written just two words, huge and overpowering. Impossible to ignore.

  Save Evie.

  30.

  Evie

  I had a plan. Or, at least, I thought I did. Armed with this knowledge, I was prepared to take on the might of Donnagh Flood. I was prepared to do battle with him.

  Having said that, I had never felt more nervous in my life. As I tried to do up my bra, which I had bought in La Petite Mort, my hand kept slipping. ‘Fuck it,’ I whispered into the air. Just keep it together, Eveline. For one night only. Keep your shit together.

  With the bra and suspenders finally on, I squeezed into a tiny bandage dress, then added a pair of towering stilettos. I touched Mammy’s locket for luck, but forced myself to remove it, placing it carefully in a drawer and putting on some costume jewellery instead. I couldn’t sully her memory by wearing it tonight. Not given what was ahead of me; the sordid things I had planned …

  When I reached the hotel, Donnagh was already at the bar, looking like something out of an ad for a male perfume: lean body, chiselled cheekbones and hard jaw. ‘Eve,’ he said, raising his hand.

  I walked over, feeling my hips move to the rhythm of my very tight dress.

  ‘You look …’ he paused ‘… you’re more stunning each time I see you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, not trusting myself to say more. I noticed my hands were shaking.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘A glass of white wine, please.’

  ‘Why not make it champagne?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘If you’re paying …’

  ‘I’m paying,’ he said, and for the briefest second he placed his hand on my arm.

  I felt my breath catch.

  ‘Eve, are you okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, in a tiny, trembly voice.

  ‘There is no need to be scared of me,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Eve,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about the other night. I’m not expecting you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.’

  ‘I asked you to book a room,’ I whispered.

  ‘I know,’ he said, smiling a little. ‘But you don’t have to feel under pressure to use it. This is just a drink and some dinner. To get to know each other better. Okay?’ He squeezed my hand.

  My champagne had arrived and Donnagh passed it to me, then reached for his own drink, a pint of Guinness. ‘To dinner with no strings,’ he said, raising his glass aloft, encouraging me to do the same.

  I clinked. I tried to smile but I couldn’t, finding it impossible to shake the suspicion that, when it came to free dinners, there was really no such thing.

  There were many ironies that night. The first was that Donnagh seemed to think I was a puritanical virgin, terrified of a man’s touch. I’m not saying I’m a slapper or anything (though others might) but I wasn’t quite the innocent he seemed to think.

  I tried to relax. This was only going to work if I got into the atmosphere of the night. If I allowed myself to be in control. Over dinner I switched into journalistic mode: I asked Donnagh to tell me more about his time in Chicago. His business. His favourite music, films, art …

  ‘Art?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not really an art man.’

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. Because I don’t really understand it, and it seems poncey and overpriced.’

  ‘A lot of it is,’ I agreed.
/>
  ‘And you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Do you like art?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said simply, not wanting to tell him the truth. That art was the oxygen I breathed, the only thing that, during the tough times, had got me through. In fact, recently, I’d even enrolled in a new evening class, hoping it would help me deal with the depression I’d been feeling lately. Not that Donnagh needed to know that. Not that he’d want to.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Eve, but I’m absolutely gasping for a cigarette,’ he said all of a sudden, flinging his napkin down on the table and pushing back his chair. ‘Would you mind if I stepped outside for a moment?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, nodding. The break suited me perfectly. When Donnagh had gone I made for the Ladies and did a quick line – an essential ingredient for the job that lay ahead. Then, jacked up on my coke high, I wandered into the smokers’ area and found him.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ he said, dumping his cigarette in a bin and producing a packet of Fisherman’s Friend. He downed one, then offered the pack to me.

  ‘Do I need one?’ I said, pretending to be offended.

  ‘God, no,’ he said. ‘You smell like something out of a rose garden. It’s just so I’m not the only one who stinks of throat lozenges.’

  We were standing close to each other now, and suddenly I felt Donnagh’s arm wrap itself around my waist. I flinched.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eve. I didn’t mean …’ He let his hand fall.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, swallowing hard. ‘You can put it back.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are you usually this nervous around men?’

  I looked at him then and wanted to blurt out everything. That he was the reason I was flinching. His ability to bully. What he’d done to me as a kid. Except that would have ruined everything. I would have been a victim. As I always had been with Donnagh.

  Tonight was about rectifying that.

  Be brave, Eveline, a voice whispered inside me. Soon this will be over. And then you can forget about Donnagh Flood. Forget he ever existed.