The Delaney Woman (24 page)

The wine took effect. Her head felt thick, fuzzy. Her thoughts were no longer clear. The room circled around her. Seriously dizzy now, she clutched the arm of the sofa and positioned one leg on the floor. Kellie lay back on the couch and looked around. It could be worse. This was a lovely room with its wealth of books and tasteful furnishings. Perhaps she would stay here forever. She would work her way through the wine closet and the library. It was rather comforting, really, the aimlessness of it all. Low expectations. That was the key. Never expect too much. Too disappointing. Kellie's tongue was thick and dry. She was drunk. Even thinking was difficult. She would he here for a while until she felt better, whatever that meant.

I
t was Thursday—at last. Would Kevin Davies meet her at the Black Swan today or would he call her bluff and allow her to go to the police? Kellie was conscious of warmth and light, the slow slide of the sun across a windowpane, a warmer, yellower sun than the one that belonged to Ireland. She pulled the covers over her head. Surely it was too early to be up. Besides, there was no reason to rise early. She'd been home for a week now. Her position at Silverlake wasn't available until the end of the term. Although she spent a good part of the day reading, one couldn't read forever. She needed activity, purpose, something more than wandering through the familiar streets of Oxford waiting for Thursday and her meeting with Davies. What was she doing here? When would her life begin again? She felt odd, like a fish out of water. For the first time in years Kellie began to seriously consider going home for good when this was all finished.

Minutes passed. Forcing herself, she crawled out of bed and made her way to the shower.

Standing under the hot spray, she wondered how she would make it through the morning until it was time to go to the Black Swan. Nothing came to her. Panic rose in her chest. She fought it, toweled herself dry, dressed, found her purse and ran down the stairs. She would take her tea and read the newspaper somewhere other than Mindy's today.

It was chillier than usual. Kellie increased her pace. Against her will she thought of Banburren; wet mist against her face, soft rain curling her hair, Lexi's breath, Heather's quaint ways, white clouds disappearing into the gray and Tom—she wouldn't go there.

Oxford, on Thursday, was unusually bright and crisp. Men and women dressed in dark business suits passed each other on the streets. Restaurant menus were posted on billboards in anticipation of the lunch hour. Shops with inviting window displays lured shoppers inside and vendors hawked their wares on every corner.

Simone's, a designer dress shop offering only originals, sat back on an inconspicuous street near the financial district. Kellie had passed it several times during her early explorations of the city. Recognizing the clientele and the merchandise as well above her means, she had never ventured inside. Obvious wealth made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was time to change her habits. Her share of Connor's estate had significantly increased her bank account. She could certainly afford a dress from Simone's and it would pass the time until her meeting with Davies—if he showed at all. Kellie stepped inside the shop and smiled tentatively at the woman who greeted her.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“I'm looking for a dress,” Kellie began.

“For what occasion?”

“A dinner party,” she improvised.

The woman's smile became ingratiating. “We have some lovely things that came in yesterday.” She cocked her head. “With your coloring may I suggest something in cream or a pale yellow? Follow me. I have the perfect dress. In fact I have several perfect dresses.”

“One will do.”

An hour later, Kellie walked out of the shop carrying a buttery yellow sheath that fit like nothing she'd ever owned and bone-colored, strappy, high-heeled sandals. She looked at her watch and her heart beat accelerated. It was nearly time to head toward the Black Swan.

The pub was filled with the usual lunch rush. A harried waitress motioned Kellie to a table in the corner facing the door. She handed her a menu. “It will be a bit before I can get to you. I hope you're not in a hurry.”

Kellie shook her head. “I'm expecting someone. Would you bring me an ale? Take your time.”

The waitress was back in no time with her drink and then she disappeared into the kitchen. Kellie glanced at the menu and put it aside. All of her attention was concentrated on the entrance to the pub.

A man, between fifty and sixty, with gingery hair and a pleasant smile entered the pub. He looked around, saw Kellie, and made his way to her table.

“Kellie Delaney?” he asked.

She nodded.

“My name is Kevin Davies.”

She motioned toward the chair beside her. “Please, sit down.”

He ignored the menu. “My wife told me you wanted to see me.”

“Did she tell you why, Mr. Davies?”

He leaned forward. “I'm sorry for your loss. I want to assure you that I had no knowledge of the tragedy, nor would I ever allow or condone such an action.”

Kellie sipped her drink. “Please don't be offended, Mr. Davies, but anyone would say that. Tell me why I should believe you.”

He sat back and folded his hands on the table, a pleasant-looking man with blunt features and bright blue eyes. “I'm going to tell you a story, a dreadful story, that will incriminate me far more than the murder of your brother and his child. What you do with the information with be up to you.”

“Does this have to do with Tom Whelan?”

“It does.”

“Will I need another drink?”

“Are you a drinking woman, Miss Delaney?”

“No.”

“Alcohol doesn't really solve anything.” His smile was kind. “I've done a number of things I'm not proud of, but this one, if made public, will destroy my way of life.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because you're angry and angry women are dangerous. I would rather be denounced for what I did than for what I didn't do. Besides, you've upset my wife. When this is over, I'd like a favor of you.”

She was intrigued. “A favor?”

“I'd like you to tell my wife that we've spoken.”

He was too controlled, too suave. She didn't trust him. “Please, go on.”

“I came of age in Portadown in the sixties. There was nothing for the lads and I in a Loyalist town but to join up.”

Kellie nodded. “I'm from Andersonstown. My brothers were the same.”

He frowned. “Surely not the brother who was killed?”

“No. Connor was different.”

Davies smiled briefly. “There were a few of those, shining lights who left as soon as it was possible.”

“Please, continue.”

“I was clever and managed to avoid prison. By the time I left for Belfast, I was a hard lad, up for almost anything. McGarrety and I set up the Belfast Brigade together.”

“Was Tom Whelan part of that life?”

“Aye, he was indeed. But Tom was from Banburren. Lines are drawn but not so sharply in the small towns near the sea. He wasn't angry enough and he was married.”

Kellie felt the pinch in her heart.

“He was caught before he earned himself a harsh sentence. That was enough for him.”

“What did he have to do with you?”

Davies pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. “We were on a mission together,” he said, his voice level. “On a chance, we thought we'd found three Prods we were looking for in a local pub in Sligo. We blindfolded and cuffed them. The checkpoint at the border was manned. We didn't expect it, but when we saw the lights we knew we couldn't cross with our prisoners. I told Tom to get out of the car, to make his way over the hills. I drove them, cuffed and blindfolded, mind you, to within fifty yards of the checkpoint. I crawled out and waited for the guards to approach the car. Then I detonated the bomb that killed them all.”

Minutes ticked by as Kellie stared at the man beside her. His face was smooth, his manners gentle. She tried to imagine him in the situation he'd recreated and couldn't. “Did Tom know what you'd planned to do?”

Davies shook his head. “No one knew. I didn't know myself until I did it. Our automobiles were equipped with bombs just in case.”

Kellie wet her lips. “I don't know what to say. What you did was terrible, unfortunately, but not unusual. Belfast was a war zone for a long time.”

“What was unusual was that two of the Protestants from the pub were women. We didn't normally set out to kill women.”

Her face whitened. “Dear God.”

His eyes never left her face. “There's more.”

She waited.

“The women weren't the right ones. They weren't involved at all. I murdered two innocent women because they were in the wrong company.”

“Please.” Kellie shook her head. “You've said enough. I can't hear any more of this.”

He leaned forward. “There is more, Miss Delaney, but my role is finished. I imagine, when you think this through, that you will have questions.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a card. “Call me when you're ready for the answers and, please, do me the courtesy of telling me what you decide to do with the information I've given you before I read it on the front pages of the
London Times
.”

Kellie didn't watch him walk away. She waited a full fifteen minutes before paying the bill and making her way back to Gillian's flat. It was three o'clock and she was restless. She needed something to take her mind off her meeting with Davies.

In Banburren, Heather would be walking home from school. Tom would be looking at the clock, anticipating her arrival home, fixing her tea, or perhaps that task had fallen to Claire. Kellie bit her lip. She wanted to hear Heather's voice. Tom hadn't said she wasn't to call. She picked up the phone. Quickly, before she changed her mind, she pressed the keypad numbers and waited for the familiar double ring that signaled Ireland.

A woman answered. Claire. Kellie resisted the impulse to hang up. “Hello,” she said. “This is Kellie.”

Silence.

She began again. “I'm calling for Heather.”

Claire came right to the point. “I wish you wouldn't.”

“Why?”

Claire's voice lowered. Kellie could barely hear her.

“It should be obvious. She's my daughter.”

“How is she?”

“Very well, thank you. We're all fine.”

Kellie's heart hurt. “I'm glad.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else you wanted?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

“You can't have them.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I won't give you my husband and child.”

“Of course not. Goodbye, Claire.”

The click of the phone was firm and final.

Kellie hung up the phone, stared at it for a long time and then picked it up again. Then she punched in the number she'd committed to memory. A man answered after the first ring. “John Griffiths, please. This is Kellie Delaney.”

Claire replaced the phone, poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. Normally she loved winter afternoons. It was her private time, a world of gray mist and muted sounds and solitude. Wrapped in a plaid blanket, she carried the cup outside and sat down on the steps. Heather and Tom wouldn't be home for a while yet. She would have time to mull over her miniconversation with Kellie.

The woman was hurting. It was evident in her voice, in the phone call itself. What it must have taken for her to make such a call? Kellie Delaney had her share of pride. She wasn't one to go where she wasn't wanted. Claire had seen it immediately and had the grace to feel some responsibility over her role in complicating Kellie's life. Not that she'd had a choice.

Tom's voice broke through her thoughts. “It's cold out here.”

Claire turned around. He stood in the doorway, hard-eyed and handsome in faded jeans and a pullover, his arms crossed against his chest to ward off the chill.

“I'm used to it,” she said. “Where's Heather?”

“Playing with Kathleen Mallory for the afternoon.”

Claire's heart sank. They would be alone.

“I heard the phone,” he said.

She thought of lying and decided against it. “It was Kellie.”

“What did she want?”

He said it casually, as if it didn't matter to him. But Claire wasn't fooled. “She asked about Heather.”

“How is she?”

“I don't know. We didn't discuss that. I told her we were all doing well.”

Tom laughed. It was a hollow sound.

Claire, who knew him as well as she knew herself, winced. After all these years, his pain shouldn't bother her. “Why did you let her go, Tom? Obviously you care for her.”

He didn't deny it. “I don't deserve her. I'm a married man, not formally educated, with the added complication of a wife who has nowhere else to go.”

She didn't contradict him. Instead she tried to make him understand. “I needed to come home, Tom. I needed a place where I felt safe. You have no idea what I've been through.”

“Don't I?”

She stared straight ahead. “It's not the same in a women's prison. We aren't housed with political prisoners. We don't study our language or Irish history or military strategy. We're with felons, murderers, psychotic personalities. It's a fight to survive.”

He sat down beside her. She felt the edge of his knee against her thigh. When he spoke his words were unexpected and cruel. “I'm not responsible for your decisions and I refuse to feel guilty because you destroyed what we had.”

She stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“I didn't want this for you,” he said. Bitterness lined his face. “I wanted you to come home, have our child and settle into some semblance of normal family life. You didn't want that and you paid for it. Perhaps there was a time when it could have worked between us, but not any longer. I feel nothing for you but contempt. Christ, what you could have done if you'd channeled your energies differently, what we both could have done.” He shook his head. “You have nothing to show for your adult life.”

“Do you?”

He looked somewhere beyond her. “No.”

She bit her lip. Nothing mattered except the words she refused to leave without saying. “I never stopped loving you, Tom.”

“How convenient,” he shot back. “When did you decide that, before or after you destroyed our lives?”

She sighed. “All right. I understand. I'll go as soon as the dole comes in.”