Parsons The Therapy House

1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-1-84840-578-3
Verlag: New Island
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 388 Seiten

Garda Inspector Michael McLoughlin is trying to enjoy his retirement - doing a bit of PI work on the side, meeting up with former colleagues, fixing up a grand old house in a genteel Dublin suburb near the sea. Then he discovers the body of his neighbour, a retired judge - brutally murdered, shot through the back of the neck, his face mutilated beyond recognition. McLoughlin finds himself drawn into the murky past of the murdered judge, which leads him back to his own father's killing, decades earlier, by the IRA. In seeking the truth behind both crimes, a web of deceit, blackmail and fragile reputations comes to light, as McLoughlin's investigation reveals the explosive circumstances linking both crimes - and dark secrets are discovered which would destroy the judge's legendary family name.

Julie Parsons was born in New Zealand but has lived most of her life in Ireland. Formerly a radio and television producer with RTÉ, she has been writing full time since her first novel, Mary, Mary, was published in 1998. A commercial and critical success, it has been translated into seventeen languages. Her novel, The Guilty Heart, spent six weeks in the Irish bestsellers. She is married and lives outside Dublin.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Parsons, Julie

Leseproben

Eventually Michael McLoughlin got the house for way below its asking price. The estate agent had said there were lots of other people interested and there were lots of people at the Saturday viewings. But even he could see that most weren’t that bothered. They clustered in groups admiring the white marble fireplaces and elaborate cornices. But he spotted them tut-tutting over the lack of a decent kitchen, the rising damp in the basement and the spreading water marks on the attic ceilings. And weighing up how much it would cost to take down the plasterboard partitions which had divided up the large Victorian rooms, making the house feel institutional. And there were some who came just to wander around, stopping to sit in the low chairs, their eyes blank, their bodies relaxed, their gestures unconscious. The Therapy House was the name on the brass plate fixed to the wall beside the black-painted front door. The same group of therapists and analysts had practiced here for years. And for years and years the depressed, the paranoid, the lonely, the heartbroken had come to them for help and healing. And now they came to say goodbye. When finally McLoughlin got the keys, after all the months of wrangling and negotiating, as the cherry tree in the neat front garden flowered, lost its flowers, got its leaves, got its fruit, he stood in the hall listening to the house. Creaks, clicks, gentle sighs, a fly buzzing against a window, a tap dripping somewhere upstairs and the low hum of memories. All those stories. Loss, rejection, anger, hurt. Tears flowing. Voices raised. And then the gentle balm of understanding. The salve of acceptance and self-knowledge. He looked around. He liked the feeling of the house. It was calm and warm. It was peaceful and protective. It would be a good place to live. The row of Victorian houses, the green in front, scattered with wooden benches and a small grove of silver birches at either end. A project, that was what he needed now he was retired. Something practical. He’d restore the old house. It would be an investment as well as a home. And when he got too old for it, he’d move into the basement and rent out the rest. He closed the front door and walked down the front steps. He turned and looked back. The sun glinted off the glass, a large bay window, with a smaller one beside it on the top floor and another at hall level. It was so hot today. Strange to feel the heat after the long cold winter which had lasted well into May, so that nothing had grown. Even the large lawn around his old house in Stepaside had been lifeless. When he got out the mower to give it a final cut before the For Sale sign went up, he barely filled one plastic sack with grass. Selling one house, buying another, he’d expected it to be a nightmare but it wasn’t too bad. His neighbour with the riding school had been only too happy to swallow up his garden. A residential equestrian centre, that was what she wanted now. His house would be perfect. She paid the price up front. Cash. There must be money in horses, he thought. All those stallion fees, tax free. And as for this house, he’d spotted it in The Irish Times property section. He’d cut out the photograph and phoned the agent immediately. He’d offered low. They’d held out for more, but he was a cash buyer too. And these were straitened times. He jiggled the keys in his hand. He locked the doors, the black painted one at the top of the granite steps, and the smaller red one, tucked in at the side, leading to the basement. He pulled the front gate to. It squeaked loudly and the latch clanged as he slotted it into place. He checked his watch. Just time to get to the airport, to catch the flight to Venice. He put his bag into the car boot. Turned for one last look at the house. Then drove away. That trip to Venice. His first time. No one ever told him it could rain so much. St Mark’s Square flooded, his feet wet, tiptoeing across the raised wooden walkways. In pursuit of an errant husband and his girlfriend. McLoughlin followed them around from four star hotel to swanky café to restaurant, leaning over canal bridges to watch them cuddling in a gondola. One good thing: everyone in Venice had a camera or a phone. Click, click, snap, snap. A thousand photos of the canals, the bridges, the squares, the pigeons. Nothing suspicious as he caught them in action. Hugging and kissing as they drank their cocktails. McLoughlin could understand the attraction of the younger woman. The aggrieved wife was well into her fifties. Giving birth to five children had thickened her waist, dragged down her ample breasts, padded her large bottom. Worrying about the kids and her husband’s expanding property business had carved deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth and eyes. Anger and resentment had given her voice an embittered tone. ‘The bastard,’ she said to McLoughlin when they met to discuss the job. ‘The fucking bastard. She’s not the first. But she’s the youngest. I’ve had it, up to here.’ And she drew a line above her thinning hair. ‘I want out. Now. Before he goes bust. He’s going bust, I know he is. I can still read a balance sheet. So I want what’s mine before it all goes down the Swanee.’ But, Venice, well, McLoughlin was bored. After day one he’d got all the evidence he needed. But the wife had paid him to stay for the duration. Three days and four nights. There was more rain. The husband and his girlfriend disappeared into their hotel. McLoughlin brooded as he hung around outside. If only he’d known about the wet he’d have brought his wellies. He contemplated buying a pair but the damage to his shoes was already done and he was offended by the price the street traders were asking. That was another thing. No one had told him about the rip-off factor. Sure, the city was beautiful. Sure, it was unique. Sure, it was all those things. But it was also unbelievably expensive. He wandered aimlessly, ducking into doorways to avoid the heaviest of the showers. He couldn’t get a hang of the place. There was no logic, no rhyme or reason to its layout. Narrow streets and walkways twisted and turned back upon themselves. Slivers of canal appeared and disappeared and little bridges suddenly reared up in front of him with awkward flights of steps and stairs. Not a good place to be wheelchair-bound, he thought sourly as he rounded a corner and found himself in a square, with a large church, beautiful against the grey sky. He was tempted to go in, but there was a queue, a crowd of American teenagers, all iPhones and gleaming white teeth, so he kept going. The rain had stopped and now it was hot. Sweat dripped down his back. He crossed a small canal, little more than a ditch, the stone of the bridge, ornate and carved. The streets here were narrow. High brick walls with greenery hanging over them. Metal gates which gave intriguing glimpses of courtyards, washing drying, a child’s scooter, a cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight. And then another church. He looked down at his guidebook, and found its name. San Simeone Piccolo, a large green-coloured dome, copper he presumed, stone steps up to a portico supported by what the book described as Corinthian columns. He picked his way slowly towards the tall wooden doors, past the other tourists who were lounging in the shade cast by the building. But the doors were closed tight. He turned around. The Grand Canal was in front of him, busy with boats of all sizes jostling for position at the landing stages. And on the other side, a low modern building, wide concrete steps leading up to it. Another glance at the guidebook confirmed it was the railway station, Stazione di Venezia, Santa Lucia. He moved down towards the water, looking for the bridge, turned to his right and crossed. He stood still, jostled and shoved by people with wheelie bags. Then he took a deep breath, slowly climbed the steps and pushed through the smudged glass doors. That trip to Venice. His first time. He stood in the railway station and looked up at the departures board. Saw the name he wanted. Bassano del Grappa. A name he’d heard years ago, told to him by an old friend in Special Branch, who had a friend in Interpol. ‘Bassano del Grappa,’ Dominic Hayes had said, ‘that’s where James Reynolds is. My friend says the Italian police have him spotted.’ James Reynolds. A Thursday morning, 1975. A routine delivery of cash to a suburban post office. Children’s allowance day. The security van had made the drop and gone. No problem. But there was a car parked on the double yellow lines by the traffic lights. Sergeant Joe McLoughlin walked towards it. A shotgun blast. He died on the spot. James Reynolds. That was his name. The man who killed his father. All those headlines. For weeks after the funeral. After they’d sat at home and mourned him. After they were supposed to have moved on. But they hadn’t. No trial. No recompense. No justice. Because James Reynolds was gone. Bassano del Grappa, the name on the departures board. A small town at the foot of the Alps. Tourists in the summer, commerce in the winter. McLoughlin had got out his old school atlas. Found Venice, on the Adriatic, surrounded by water on all sides, then let his eyes move northwards from the green of the Veneto lowlands to the dull ochre of the higher ground closer to the Alps. And saw there, an inch and a half away, the name of the town. Would he go? Would he look for him? Would he have the...