Page 2 of Hidden Daughters (Detective Lottie Parker #15)
COUNTY GALWAY
SUNDAY
‘I’m Imelda Conroy, and my radio documentary is dedicated to those who lived through a horrific time in Irish history.
A time from the not-too-distant past. A time when young women were shamefully branded “fallen women” by the Church, even though most were just girls who’d been abandoned by their families to be hidden away behind imposing convent walls.
Convents with laundries. Magdalene laundries, so called after Mary Magdalene, and you know how she was portrayed in the Bible.
‘But we won’t be talking about biblical times.
Instead we will be concentrating on the late nineteen seventies and eighties, even up to the mid nineties.
The women you will hear recounting their experiences were painted as modern-day Mary Magdalenes.
Fallen women. A misnomer if ever there was one.
They did not fall, they were pushed. They were not women, they were no more than children. ’
Imelda hit the pause button. She inhaled a breath and scanned her eyes over her notes, though she didn’t need them.
‘You will hear from survivors. Ordinary young women. Some were just children abandoned by their families because of financial problems. Others were pregnant girls, and at a time that should have been the happiest of their lives, they were ostracised by family, church and community. I want you to hear these survivor stories in order to honour those who did not survive. Women and children who lost their lives behind those high walls. Who knows how many lie in unmarked graves throughout this luscious green island of saints and scholars. Ha. The reputation of this little country was apparently greater than the lives of the most vulnerable in our society.’
Removing her headphones, Imelda sat back in her chair. She’d already recorded and edited some of the episodes. She had one more to do, but for now she was framing the intro for Episode 1.
Having listened to the women speak for hours over the past few months, she felt physically and emotionally drained. She would finish the introduction in the morning. No, finish it now and have a lie-in.
She felt a tingle of excitement. What she had uncovered was about to blow the previous reports and investigations wide open.
It could rock the government, might further erode the power of the Catholic Church in Ireland.
The last vestiges of respect for the Church would crumble under the words of these brave women.
And no one knew of her own emotional link to the story.
The truth was, she hadn’t yet figured out the whole sorry tale.
She was still searching. Seeking to uncover who she was and why her life had taken the twists and turns it had.
She went to fill the kettle and switched it on for a bedtime cup of tea.
She was peckish, so she slotted two slices of bread into the toaster and got out the butter and jam.
A knock on the door caused her to pause.
A glance at the clock told her it was after midnight.
Another insistent, quick-fire knock-knock-knock .
‘Damn.’ She stared out the window into the inky darkness. Though it was June, and warm, the sky was dark, starless. Might be rain tomorrow. What else could she expect? A typical summer in Ireland.
At the door of the rented holiday cottage, she leaned in to listen. There was no spyhole like in her Dublin apartment. But she was safe here, wasn’t she? Nothing bad happened in Connemara. Bad things only happened in the past.
‘Who’s there?’ she asked.
‘Assumpta Feeney. Let me in.’
‘Who?’ It was hard to hear through the thick wood. Imelda pulled back the bolt and twisted the handle. As she did so, the door burst inwards and a woman almost fell in on top of her.
‘Jesus, Imelda, you’d think I was a murderer the way you’re looking at me.’
‘I… I don’t know…’ She wasn’t sure if she recognised the woman.
‘Assumpta Feeney? Remember? You spoke with me. On the phone and at my house.’
She knew then who her late-night visitor was. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘To warn you that you’re in danger. I want to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life.’ The woman paused, breathless. ‘Then again, depending on what you make of it, I could be giving you the scoop of a lifetime.’
With those words, Assumpta sat on a chair and took a bottle of wine from her bag. ‘Corkscrew?’
‘I’m sure there’s one somewhere.’ Imelda went to the kitchen, getting ready to record the conversation. Once she had their wine poured, she sat back and waited for whatever Assumpta had to tell her. She was intrigued by her intrusion. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
‘Before we start, tell me a bit about yourself.’ Assumpta drained her glass and reached for the bottle.
Imelda cringed. She never talked about herself to anyone. She kept her life private while invading the privacy of others. But her quest for the truth did not fill her with guilt.
‘Honestly, there’s not much to relate. You know I do this for a living, but I’m thinking I might have to take up a new job. It’s a struggle to secure funding.’
‘When I reveal my story, you’ll make a fortune. You’ll have Netflix breaking down your door.’
‘I doubt that,’ Imelda said. ‘This is a radio documentary, not television. I don’t see how they’d be interested.’
‘Perhaps you should make a podcast. Podcasts are huge at the moment.’
She thought it was an idea worth pursuing if the promised finance did not materialise. Assumpta’s second glass of wine was almost finished, and though Imelda herself had consumed very little, she felt drunk with anticipation.
‘We can start again, if this is new information. Where are you from, Assumpta?’
‘I’ve travelled the world for most of my life, so I hardly know where I’m from or who I am any more. Life has been good to me in recent years. Before that… well, I’d buried it all. I told you some of it already, but I think the time is right to reveal the truth.’
Half an hour in, Assumpta was on her third glass of wine and Imelda was getting antsy and tired because the woman still had to reach the crux of her story. She went to the kitchen and poured her own wine down the sink, then switched on the kettle again.
She went back to the other room. ‘I’m making a cuppa. Would you like one?’ As she said the words, she froze. Something white, for all the world like a face, had flashed by the window. ‘Did you see that?’
‘See what?’ Assumpta twisted round awkwardly on the chair, spilling wine on the upholstery. ‘Oops.’
‘There was someone at the window, I’m sure of it. I saw a face. It had to be a face. Did you not see it?’
‘It’s the wind. The shadow of branches blowing. It’s always been spooky out this way. I’m surprised they get anyone to rent these holiday homes.’
‘The other two cottages are unoccupied.’ Imelda looked out the window, thinking just how isolated they were.
A gate banged.
Gravel crunched.
She felt her throat dry up as she tried to speak. ‘Footsteps. I’m sure of it. Jesus, Assumpta, there’s someone out there.’
‘You’re imagining things. I’ve put the wind up you with my story. There are no ghosts. Just haunted memories.’
A high-pitched sound came from the kitchen. Imelda jumped again, her hands clutched to her chest. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Water’s boiled?’
She sighed and peered out into the blackness of the night.
All was quiet again. What had she heard?
She was crazy to rent in such a remote place.
Halfway down a hill, the ocean in the distance.
The location had played to her romantic and whimsical nature, but now she was regretting her decision.
Another shadow moved. Was it just the branch of a tree swaying before it returned to stillness?
‘I’m sure there’s someone out there.’ She could not rid herself of the anxiety in her chest.
‘You’re so jumpy. I’ll go take a look.’ Assumpta stood, but fell back onto the chair with a giggle. ‘Gosh, I think I’m drunk. Might be time for that coffee. Here, take my bag, there’s a packet of biscuits in it somewhere.’
Imelda stood staring out for another moment. ‘Must be my imagination.’
She didn’t believe it was all imagination, but she didn’t fancy going outside to look around in the pitch dark. They were safe inside, weren’t they?
Picking up Assumpta’s bag, she switched off her recording equipment and put the USB in her jeans pocket before returning to the kitchen. She could not shake off her anxiety as she switched on the kettle once more.
That was when she heard the front door burst inwards and Assumpta scream.